


The Boy with the Thorn in His Side

by GasDancer



Series: Young Volcanoes [2]
Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon Compliant, Deepthroating, Drinking, FWN, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, TAOTU, just truckloads of repression and idiocy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22778875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GasDancer/pseuds/GasDancer
Summary: "In a world where music-making frequently seems to resemble just another career choice, theirs is an old-fashioned affection, one based on humour, shared tastes and the fact they can both knock out dozens of tunes in the time it takes most bands to take a toilet break. Watching them finish each other's sentences, agonize over their answers to questions of how well they know each other and embrace when it's time to leave... well, you'd need a heart made of Hoosiers CDs not to find it incredibly sickly sweet."
Relationships: Miles Kane/Alex Turner
Series: Young Volcanoes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1521278
Comments: 100
Kudos: 105





	1. vivification

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so I know I may have said I would put it on hold, but then as soon as the weight was off my shoulders I was inspired to write so......here you go im a big fat liar LMAO enjoy
> 
> This probably won't make sense if you haven't read part one, so probably do that first

_ [A]: how's it going with the lads?  _

_ [M]: fuckin mega ive got some great stuff Al Im very eager for you to hear it x _

_ [A]: me too! :-) are you sending me demos? _

_ [M]: well look who's expecting special treatment, no im not you'll wait to hear it like the rest of the fans mister x _

_ [A]: Piss off _

_ [A]: I can't wait _

_ \----------------------------- _

Manchester is fucking freezing.

This shouldn't feel like a revelation, given that it's December in the English north, but he still finds himself shocked by it when he steps out of the pub, looking out to the street for a sign of a tour bus approaching. He zips his coat all the way up, and fiddles with the cigarette pack in his pocket. His hands are already beginning to go numb as he ineffectually flicks the lighter, on, sparks shooting out a few times before a flame finally springs to life, and he lights the cigarette between his lips, letting the smoke incrementally warm him up from the inside. He supposes he could go back inside and get his gloves, but it seems pointless now that his fag is lit, and besides, for some reason he wants to be here when they arrive, away from everyone, to receive them first. Inside it's noisy and crowded, and all he was doing was stare at the clock over the rim of his pint while Matt was going on about Sheffield Wednesday, watching the minute hand amble towards the arrival of the Rascals. 

He shoves his hands in his pockets, rubbing his thumb across his knuckles to get the circulation running again. They're five minutes late already. Maybe he should call up, see if everything is alright. Maybe some terrible accident befell them, and now they're all lying in the wreckage, bloody and battered, somewhere off the M62--

Before the paranoia drags him any further down, he hears the telltale rumble of a bus, and then it's right there, turning the corner to ease into the adjacent parking lot, sliding in the spot right beside their own. The engine is cut off, and Alex sucks down the last of the tobacco, carelessly flicking the rest of the cigarette to the side. The deep inhale makes him woozy, vision blurring momentarily, but then the door opens and Miles emerges, hopping down the bus steps and giggling like a child on a school excursion. 

He feels gooseflesh prickle up all over, but this time he's not sure it's the temperature.

Miles spots him instantly, grin beaming so brightly Alex is surprised the whole neighborhood isn't lighting up. Before he's made any conscious choice he's striding over to meet Miles halfway, and they crash into each other's arms, laughing into layers of wool.

"There you are." Miles sounds relieved too, like he almost didn't expect to find Alex there. Alex sneaks a glance behind his shoulder, to where Greg and Joe seem miles away, carefully stepping out into the searing cold. He wishes they'd go even slower, maybe even stay inside the bus for a bit, so they can stretch out this bit of moment as long as they possibly can. 

He's earned it, he likes to think; he hasn't found himself alone with Miles in four months now.

While the Monkeys were busy wrapping up their tour, Miles was starting his own, hopping across cities and towns in the UK and Europe, and the scant few times Alex had managed to be there to see them, including a few days ago when they were performing together in London, it had felt like they were drowning in a mass of people, and they had barely managed a moment to themselves. He could never quite place how he felt about it, partly upset at the intrusive crowd, partly relieved that there was a protective buffer between them, and most of all giddy with pride every time someone interrupted to congratulate Miles and chat about his songs. The more time went on though, the more this distance began to chaffe, like an itch he couldn't quite reach on his back and that only got more insistent when ignored.

The last time they'd been really alone together they were hugging like this too, but it was a much warmer day in a London alleyway, and Alex could barely see through his tears. 

They pull apart to look at each other now, and Alex finds Miles still smiling at him, nose already turning cherry red at the tip. He wants to ask how the drive was, or something polite about his bandmates, but his mouth seems set on a different lane. "I'm so happy yer here." 

Miles' smile turns just a fraction wider, if that were even possible. "Makes two of us." He raises a gloved hand, ruffling Alex's unruly mane of hair. He always somewhat hated how fast his hair grew, having to drag himself to a barber to chop off the strands curling around his ears and neck every few weeks, but the older he gets the more he realises he rather enjoys how it looks. "S'getting longer," Miles says, breath ghosting out, mingling with Alex's. "I like it."

Joe and Greg rush past them, barely recognizable as humans under the bundle of layers they're wearing, and Alex catches a muffled "You're gonna freeze to death, lovebirds!" from under a thick scarf before they're gone, disappearing inside the pub.

Miles' hand falls away from his nape, and Alex feels the cold return ten times more sharply. "Thanks," he mumbles, moving his hand to scratch at the spot Miles just abandoned. "You don't think I should cut it?" 

"No!" Miles immediately protests. "Leave it like that, so we'll look like proper cute Beatles on our tour."

_ Our tour.  _ The words swell and explode behind his eyeballs, like a fireworks show in New Year's Eve. This is the end of the Monkeys tour, and then he can start preparing for the new one, travelling all over the world to play music with Miles. He bounces a bit on the balls of his feet, partly to warm himself up, partly to release the sudden rush going through him. "Well, if it's a special request, I'll see what I can do."

Miles' eyes twinkle like sparks in the frosty air. "That's my good boy."

He barely has time to process the second flare of heat bursting through him before a different voice puts it out cold.

"Kano! Looking smart as ever!" 

The pub door clicks shut, and they turn in time to see Alexa hopping over to them, stockinged legs protruding from her oversized leopard print coat. Miles envelopes her in a huge hug when she reaches them, swaying them a bit on the spot. "Hey, Lex! You're not looking bad yourself. I may have to borrow that coat."

She laughs as they separate, tugging a strand of hair behind her ear. "Absolutely, as long as you let me borrow those leather trousers I saw in your wardrobe."

Miles puts his hand out in agreement, and Alexa shakes it cheerfully. It never stops being strange, seeing them like this. Alexa had been there, too, every time he saw Miles these last few months, and every time they'd gotten along like a house on fire. Their boisterous personalities had intertwined instead of clashing, and it was only after seeing them work so well together that he'd realised how much he was fearing the alternative. He's not quite sure how he managed to carve out a world where everyone could fit in harmony, but he sends a mental note of gratitude to the universe nonetheless.

"I actually came out to smoke, but I'm freezing my tits off, so why don't we all go inside, ey?"

Alex goes to protest, not quite ready to step back into the group and lose Miles 'attention just yet, but Miles is already looping an arm around Alexa's, and they're hurrying to the pub in step.

"Well of course yer cold. No fat on you, Lex, how do you expect to survive the winter?"

"You're one to talk! Have you see your legs? I bet we weigh the same."

He doesn't get to hear Miles' retort, drowned out amongst their echoing laughter and the whistling of the wind. He takes one last moment to watch them walk in tandem to the pub's entrance, and then he rushes behind them, edging just in time through the closing door.

\----------------

The gigs pass in such a rush he barely realises when he's gotten to sitting on stage at the Apollo, playing the first keys to 505.

The first Manchester gigs were atrocious, the crowd being absolute twats to the Horrors, their second opening act, and Alex had found himself in the position of having to chastise them, like a put-upon teacher at a rough school. Aberdeen had been a lot better, yet still quite hectic, and now they'd looped back in Manchester for the final act. This one was going to be recorded and made into a DVD, so he was feeling the added scrutiny, like an extra pair of eyes following his movements everywhere on stage. He wasn't as intimidated by it as he was in the early, wide-eyed days, but the slight dip of unease had never left his stomach either.

He likes to believe it's somewhat more warranted today, because when Miles walked out for Plastic Tramp, it suddenly started to feel like a test drive. 

Miles had performed with them dozens of times on stage, and every single one was as exhilarating as the one before, but this time it was different. When Miles stepped onto the stage, it was like everything else disappeared from Alex's mind, and the world coalesced into one spot in the middle of the stage, framing a lanky body holding a bright red Gibson.

He had the bursting need to just turn around and watch Miles throughout the whole thing, sing the words to him while Miles plucked the guitar strings just for his own benefit. It all felt different now after the studio, after spending all this time with Miles goofing around, playing the riffs again and again, smiling at Alex through the glass. He knew what he had, and mostly, he knew what he could look forward too. Him and Miles on stage, playing, and singing, and having the time of their lives.

The cheers at the end of the song snap him forcefully out of his daydream.

Even with the Puppets, he won't be free of the scrutiny.

He does, however, allow himself a peak twice more: Once during the instrumental, letting himself bask in Miles' dexterity, his ease on stage, and the way his black turtleneck fits him like a glove, and once, inevitably, before he leaves the stage. When their eyes meet at the end of the song, blanketed by the roar of the audience, Miles gives him a smile and a nod as he takes off his guitar, and Alex can't help but return it. The gig resumes normally after his departure side stage, but Alex feels more at ease somehow, comforted. It takes him a couple more songs to realise that Miles' smile was a reassuring one, and that it worked like a charm before Alex even knew he had asked for it.

\---------------------

"To a great tour!"

"To a fantastic tour!"

"To a fucking  _ spectacular _ tour!"

There are cackles all around the table as everyone downs their shots. This toast has been made at least three more times, and the buzz is working its way nicely around the table. The hotel bar they're currently camped out at is steadily emptying out, and their party has been dwindling too on the past hour. Joe and Matt, dipped out early, escorted out by various insults from the remaining members of the group calling them lightweights. Nick was next, excusing himself due to a headache that Alex was fairly sure was made up, and then finally Greg, rubbing his sleepy eyes. The rest had kept drinking and causing a ruckus, championed by Alexa zeroing in on the karaoke screen at the far end of the room. 

"Oh my god, we have to. If I had to sit through you guys performing for five days, then you're absolutely enduring me for the night."

Alex grunts in mock outrage, while Jamie and Miles help pick up everyone's glasses, moving them to the table closest to the torture device. Alex is pretty sure he's had enough hearing his own voice as well, but luckily, no one seems interested in putting him on the spot.

"Alright, for this number I will require a partner." Alex hides his face behind his empty beer bottle, but Alexa scoffs at him. "Not you. I think I need someone with a bit more flair for this. No offense, babe."

"None taken," Alex reassures, while Miles hops to his feet with his arms outstretched like Alexa's personal Messiah. "I'm here for you, love."

Alexa grins so wide Alex would swear she's grown an extra row of teeth. "Just what I was hoping for."

The sounds of Don't Go Breaking My Heart boom from the speakers, and Miles and Alexa throw themselves into an impassioned rendition that would surely make Elton and Kiki proud. The warmth spikes in him again at the sight, stoked by the alcohol. They look like two peas in a pod, Alexa flushed red by the drinks, Miles with his hair sticking out at all angles, dancing and impassionately singing 70s bops slightly out of tune. He wants to get up and work his way between them, let their pulsing energy seep through his bones and right into his very core, but it's very likely that his presence would only disturb their dynamic.

"Careful, Al," comes a slurred remark from his left. If Alexa is flushed a pretty red, Jamie looks like he fell into a cherry pie. "The way he's goin' he might steal yer girl."

Alex laughs at the dig, watching Alexa dip backwards to rest her head on Miles' chest, shimmying her shoulders as she belts out the chorus. "More likely she'll steal him, the way I see it."

Jamie snorts into his whiskey and Coke as a response, eyes drifting shut like he's remembering a particularly funny joke. "She'll steal yer boy then." He continues giggling into his glass, swaying gently, and Alex's eyes return to the pair on stage, as Alexa heartily reassures Miles she won't go breaking his heart one last time, and the song draws to a close.

Alex's solitary applause echoes in the room, and he turns around to realise they're the last ones there, apart from the bartender lazily wiping at a glass.

"What time is it?" 

"Oh, don't tell me you're tired Al." Miles all but crashes on the chair next to him, picking up Matt's discarded half-full cranberry vodka. "It's not even 4 in the morning."

"Fuck's sake, mate," Alex moans, "you wanna keep it going 'till the sun comes up?"

"Yes, because I'm not a stick in the mud."

Jamie makes a sound that eerily resembles a wounded gazelle, and shakily pushes himself to his feet. "Right lads, you do that, I think I've had enough for the night."

Alexa scratches her head on the other side of the table, ambling behind her chair. "Sorry Kano, but I think I'm ready to head off as well. The elders have had enough for tonight." Jamie lands a heavy arm around her shoulders when he reaches her, eyes already halfway shut, and Alexa secures him by the waist with a half smile. "Are you coming too, then, Al?"

Alex pauses, staring between the two about to exit and Miles, who's sprawled on the chair, defiantly sipping the stolen mixed drink. He can feel tiredness and alcohol settling heavily on his limbs and right above his eyelids, making everything heavy and sluggish, especially now that they've all settled down, but there's a challenge in Miles' eyes that he hates to back down on. 

It also feels like the final opportunity for them to spend some time alone after days and days of dogged attempts, and he reasons he can't just let it fly by, drunkenness or not.

"I think I'm sticking around." He picks up his own glass again, and suppresses the urge to stare at Miles' responding grin. "I won't be called a stick in the mud on me own after-party."

Alexa rolls her eyes, and adjusts Jamie in her grip, who seems to be drifting further into actual sleep with every passing second. "Alright, you have your own key card. Don't make too much noise when you come in, alright? 'Night 'night."

Watching them leave is nothing short of hilarious, as Alexa's skinny frame struggles to haul Jamie to the door, and they nearly topple over when Alexa tries to steer him on the turn towards the lift. When the doors finally close behind them, Miles turns towards him with a giggle. "Ten quid says she'll drop him off somewhere in the corridor."

Alex laughs along, downing the rest of his beer. "I'll take that bet."

Miles follows suit with Matt's drink, and then hails the bartender, who seems like he'd rather be anywhere else on Earth. Alex makes a mental note to leave a hefty tip. "Bring us a round of shots, will ya? Dealer's choice."

Alex buries his head in his hands, trying to shake off the heaviness from his system. "Fuck, you actually want us to get twatted tonight, don't ya?"

"Yep." Miles grins. When the bartender arrives with the tray he outstretches his arm to intercept it halfway, shirt riding up an inch to reveal his ghostly pale stomach. Alex carefully trains his eyes on the table again where Miles sets the shots, and he realises he's staring at a much bigger array than two. Apparently the lad was perceptive enough to realise they wouldn't stop at just one round, and he preemptively prepared the next three so he wouldn't be bothered. Alex would almost be impressed if the sight didn't make his insides clench.

"Come on Al," Miles half-whines as Alex downs the first tequila shot with a wince. "It's the end of the bloody tour, you have to live it up a little. Is that how you're gonna be when ours ends?"

Without a thought, Alex wacks him over the back of the head, making him splutter out his shot and go into a fit of asthmatic laughter. 

"Don't go talking about the end when we haven't even started yet, ya knob. Did you go into the studio thinking about the last day, too?"

He regrets the question the moment it leaves his mouth.

It's not just the way Miles' smile falters, or the way he shifts his gaze towards the tequila in his hand to avoid Alex's eyes. It's all the memories that it sends careening to the surface, tearing through every flimsy barrier he's tried to put up in the past four days. The sweet ones, and the carefree ones, and worst of all the ones in the dark, where they made each other fall apart again and again.

"No," Miles says, and his voice is different now. Alex is certain that the exact same film roll is playing in his mind's eye. "No, I only thought about it when it got close."

Alex is harshly tempted to call it a night right here, and race back to his room where he can hide. Here all he can do is look at Miles, and lay defenseless as everything rushes up with a vengeance, punch after punch to the gut.

He remembers Miles saying he doesn't want to stop, clutching him close. He remembers saying "I'm yours" as they were rutting madly against each other for the last time.

He remembers meaning it, too.

"She's really great, by the way." Miles says abruptly, cheer returning to his voice as if it never faltered in the first place. "We're really getting on. And she's so good for you."

Alex might have been thrown by the non-sequitur, if he wasn't perfectly aware of how it fit in the conversation. He picks up another shot and downs it, wincing again. "I know. I'm really happy with her, you know. And I'm happy you lot like her, too."

Miles smiles, and drinks his next shot too, though he makes it look much more seamless. "If you marry her, I'm playing your wedding. It's non-negotiable." Alex laughs, shaking his head, and just like that, everything steers back into course. He almost feels silly for having dwelled on it in the first place. The past is gone. Today is a completely different story.

"I'm sure she wouldn't have it any other way either." 

They down more shots, grinning, and by the time conversation starts flowing again, progressively getting more incoherent as the alcohol takes hold, Alex has forgotten all about the little bump they encountered on the way.

\----------------

It takes extremely long for his eyes to focus on his phone screen, lights expanding and contracting in his retinas, by eventually they coalesce into a bright  _ 5.57, _ right in the middle of the screen.

The bartender, which Alex has taken to calling Roger in his head, 'cause he just feels like one, had gotten increasingly exasperated as the night wore on, hovering behind the bar, and then very passive-aggressively starting to swipe the floor, in a clear effort to get them to leave. Alex would normally have been much more receptive to the message, but he just couldn't bring himself to get up and end the night, not when him and Miles were getting increasingly giggly, sharing endless stories from the tour about annoying roadies, and even more annoying journos, ending up in a heated debate about covers they should do on their tour.

"I want Beatles." Miles doesn't take to pouting often, and when he does it was a certain sign he is drunk off his tits. Alex can't help but chuckle.

" 'course we're doing Beatles. We can't not do Beatles. Beatles are a staple." Beatles is a funny word. He mutters it once under his breath again, and the chuckle bursts into a full blown giggle.

"Yeah but which one?" Miles spreads out his arm onto the cluttered table, letting his head rest on it like he's about to take a nap, and Alex watches with interest as one of the glasses on the edge slides off, and shatters into a million pieces on the floor.

As he's deep in consideration about the best possible songs to cover, obviously by John, Roger finally decides to take a stand.

"Um, lads, sorry to interrupt, but it's 6am and I have to close and clean up. Can you please pay your tab and make your way to your room?"

Alex nods in what he hopes looks like a charming and self assured manner, and fumbles for his wallet. He fishes out a few bills which he suspects more than cover everyone's orders, and gives a forehead salute to the lad.

"Not to worry Roger, we'll be out of your hair in a moment."

He barely registers the man's confused frown while he scrambles to his feet, hooking his arms under Miles' armpits to haul him up. "Come on Mi, we're off."

Miles' eyes fly open, and he frantically looks around. "No wait, we're not playing an encore?"

Alex isn't sure how he manages to carry them both out while laughing his guts off, sending Miles into an equal fit, but they miraculously manage to reach the lift upright. The last thing he sees through the closing doors is the palpable wave of relief washing over Roger's face.

Returning back to the room proves to be a Herculean task. The slightest movement from the lift as it surges upwards makes them lose their balance, and they end up sprawled on the floor, laughing so hard Alex momentarily fears he'll have a heart attack. The walls are all coated in a reflective material, so they can see a dozen copies of themselves, narrowing down to a vanishing point. Miles becomes fascinated by it, and he starts waving his arms around, still wracked with giggles, making the hundred diminishing Mileses dance and flail on the wall. By the time the doors open again on the sixth floor, Alex's cheeks hurt from laughter, and he has to crawl out on all fours, not trusting his legs to carry him a foot over.

Miles is doing no better, face a deep shade of scarlet around his own bellowing laugh, and yet he still puts a finger on his lips, daring to shush him. "Come on," he chokes out, rising on unsteady legs, "get up, before they kick us out of the hotel. M'not sleeping in the bus 'cause you're a rowdy drunk." 

"They can't kick me out!" Alex chortles, taking Miles' arm to lift himself up slowly, testing his balance. He feels like a few important nerves have been fried, cutting off the connection between his brain and his feet, but surprisingly they're functional, maybe working purely on muscle memory. "I can do whatever I want. I'm a fuckin' rockstar, ya see!" Miles is clutching him very securely, and the euphoria gushes inside him like the best liquor in the world, heating him up from head to toe. He's so giddy he feels it bursting out of his chest, so he lets it. " _ STOP MAKING THE EYES AT ME-- _ "

He doesn't manage any further, because Miles' hand is clamping down on his mouth in a rush, but he can feel him shaking bodily with laughter, plastered at his side. "Shhhh! Fuck's sake, you're not having tequila again, it pulls out all of your arrogance."

They are wobbly on their feet as it is, and the momentum shift Miles has caused by shutting Alex's mouth sends them off course, making them trip over themselves until Alex's back harshly connects to the cool wall behind him. It feels incredibly soothing. He hadn't realised how hot he was running until now.

Miles' hand falls from his mouth, and they're both still rocking with giggles, except more subdued now, hushed like they've a secret they share just between them. His gaze falls to the door behind Miles, takes a moment to adjust.  _ 609 _ . They must be close to his own room, then, maybe even right next to the door. "It's your fault I'm arrogant." His eyes feel heavier now, shifting back to Miles, but he doesn't wanna close them just yet. Miles looks flushed and tousled just a few inches from his face, and he'd rather be looking at that, for as long as he can. It's much better than the doors, or darkness. "You told me I'm cute and I've pretty hair, and it got to me head."

He starts to giggle again, expecting Miles to follow suit, but suddenly Miles' eyes seem far away. He can feel his hand sweeping up, but instead of muzzling him again his fingers go to the back of his head, and then they're sinking into Alex's hair, right at the base of his skull. "It _ is _ very pretty." His voice is all rough and gravely from the alcohol. His fingers twitch in Alex's nape, pulling the strands taut, and suddenly he feels five times more grateful for the chilly wall against his back. "Yeah, well," Alex rasps, and he hears how different his voice is too, how low. "Yours is very pretty too."

Miles huffs out a small breath, mouth twitching up at the corner, and Alex's follows the curve of his mouth with his eyes. He realises they're so close the toes of their shoes are touching. A half step more and they'd be fully pressed up against each other. Miles inhales once, breath rattling.

"I want you."

Alex can feel the corridor tilting on its axis, and he's sliding off, endlessly.

The silence that follows is maddening. The only thing Alex can hear over his heart pounding is their ragged breathing, making his mouth itch. Miles has stilled very carefully against him, eyes blazing and hand still clutching at his hair, and Alex can practically taste his breath, pouring out on every exhale. He wants to lean in closer, examine every inch it. He wants to open up Miles' mouth and discover it again, lick out every single thing he's tasted right off his tongue. He sort of wants to skip the nonsense, and let Miles use that hand in his hair to tug him down to his knees.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck _ , fuck. _

He truly thought he'd locked away France in a neat drawer, that he'd distilled it in a couplet, and it was over and done with, that at worst it would be an uncomfortable memory popping up over a badly placed question, but he had been a blind idiot the entire time. It had never really left him. It was always thrumming inside his veins, dormant, waiting for the right thing to set it ablaze, and here it was. 

They were finally alone with each other, and the fire was blazing again, sucking up the oxygen.

Except they weren't truly alone, not really, not this time. He could make ample excuses for himself while Alexa was across a channel, or an entire ocean, but he isn't quite sure the same rules apply to a two-inch hotel wall.

It's cheating now. If he pushes in, if he lets Miles kiss him raw right here, where their bodies are an inch apart, begging to collide like a coin to a magnet, he will be cheating on his girlfriend. The knowledge settles heavily in the center of his mind, but to his absolute terror it doesn't hold a candle to the inferno. Miles' hand tightens in his nape, and he lets out a tiny gasp, barely audible, but Miles must have felt it anyway. He can feel their noses nudging together, and now his face is a blur, colours fading into each other and forcing his eyes to close. It makes no difference, though. He doesn't need sight to know exactly where Miles' lips are, to know exactly how to tilt his head to reach them. 

He's drunk, he reasons when he feels himself slip forward, lips parting just a fraction when their foreheads slide against each other. He's drunk and he can't be held accountable--

In a rush, Miles pulls back. His hand drops down to his side like he scorched it, and for a moment they simply stare at each other, the trance breaking up into a thousand jagged pieces. Miles' face seems bizarre, hazey with alcohol yet frighteningly sober at the same time, colour dotting high on his cheeks and down the column of his neck. He'll be flushed all the way down to chest, Alex knows. He wipes his nose with the side of his forefinger, a nervous tick Alex has observed a thousand times, and then he straightens up.

"That's the cover we should do, I mean." 

The words sail aimlessly into his brain before he manages to register their meaning, and then he merely nods, not trusting himself to open his mouth, or god forbid, move.

"Cool." Miles looks like he's in pain, and Alex can only imagine he looks the same, an uncomfortable mixture of shock and effort distorting his features. "Well, we've time to talk about it, anyway. Goodnight." 

Before Alex can make another attempt at responding, Miles has turned on his heels, marching down to the end of the corridor and disappearing behind his hotel room door like someone's set dogs after him. Alex doesn't move an inch, even after silence settles around him again. 

It takes a few seconds for the fog to part and for him to realise he's shivering, back numb against the plaster. He has no clue how he could be burning up a few seconds ago. Now there are goosebumps whipping all over his skin, and he wraps his arms around himself, futilely trying to warm up. 

The card takes a few shaky tries to enter the slot but then the little whirring sound buzzes, and he takes a few careful steps into the room. Alexa is a barely visible lump under the blanket, breathing evenly.

She has no idea, he thinks grimly as he undresses, getting into bed in his boxers. He was about to snog his best friend outside their hotel room, and she's sleeping like a baby.

He can't make out her face in the dark, even when he's lying a few inches away from her, but in a just world she'd be wearing a knowing frown, an accusatory line splitting her forehead and judging him guilty on sight. It's all his fucking fault, really. He can't believe he was naive enough to think he'd left everything behind in France and walked away unscathed. Nothing had changed. The weather was colder, the people could understand their accents, and Alexa and all their friends were constantly buzzing around, but fundamentally, it is all the same. 

If Miles hadn't pulled away, he's not sure he would have been strong enough to do it himself. His imagination kicks into high gear again, conjuring up all the things that happened in the past, and, terrifyingly, all the things that could happen in the future. All the things he wants to happen, because, God, he  _ wants,  _ and he can't stop wanting.

He can't tell if he's twitching, or if his thoughts are so loud they're echoing around the room, but Alexa stirs then, cracking open one turquoise eye.

"'Ey." Her voice is all gravel, husky with sleep, and it's a sound that never fails to get him going. This time though, as the thrum of arousal sluggishly rakes down his body, a taunting reminder dogs it. 

_ Not like it's difficult. Miles got you halfway there already, and it was only a hand in your hair. _

"Hey." He hopes his voice isn't trembling the way he feels it, but even if it does he'll blame it on the booze and the adrenaline.

"I missed you tonight." He murmurs as he leans in closer, pressing an inquisitive kiss on her lips, and then another when she responds, sleep-heavy limbs curling slowly around him. It's not exactly true, but it feels like the only thing to say.

Alexa laughs softly against his lips, and then he's pulled fully on top of her, nestling in-between her legs. "Didn't think you would. You always have a good time with Miles."

His stomach clenches, but Alexa is still petting him languidly, no haughtiness to her tone, so he leans down to kiss her some more, let her fully envelop his senses. "I did, I just--" he mumbles into her mouth, "just wish you were there too, is all."

That's closer to the truth at least. If she'd been there, he'd have been safe, shielded from temptation. 

It really is a naughty fucking friend.

Alexa mercifully chooses not to force him to continue making up excuses, because she's kissing him again, in that way that signals an end to all conversation. He pours everything he can into it with single-mindedness, letting his tongue swipe into her mouth and his hands roam on her soft skin, and gradually, inch by inch, he feels like he comes back to himself, back to where he's supposed to be. He focuses on it so totally, so single-mindedly, that it's easy to ignore the pang low in his chest when Alexa's hand scales upwards, and tangles in the locks of his hair.

\-----------------

The next morning everyone is quiet at breakfast, battling a lack of sleep and blinding hangovers. Miles doesn't approach him while they're eating, or while they're bringing their bags out front to the driver, and when they board their respective buses with not a word exchanged between them, Alex tries to convince himself that all he's feeling is relief.

  
  
  
  



	2. rumination

He types a lot of text messages over the next few days, but none of them ever see the light of day.

~~_[A]:I'm looking forward to our tour._ ~~

~~_[A]: I'm sorry for being like this._ ~~

~~_[A]: I didn't expect it to be this way._ ~~

~~_[A]: I'm scared to be alone with you._ ~~

~~_[A]: I can't stop thinking about being alone with you._ ~~

~~_[A]: I'm dying to tour with you, but I'm terrified of all the things I wanna do._ ~~

\-----------------

An entire week passes before he manages to sort out the jumbled mess inside his head.

It's almost comical how dutifully he follows the five stages of grief after the incident with Miles in the corridor. In hindsight he knows that the denial had taken deep root in the weeks before the incident, blanketing him in a warm sense of false security, and then the rug was promptly pulled from under his feet, setting everything off.

The anger that follows in the next few days is frankly, very inconvenient, and he's got an inkling the cheery Christmas decorations all around London trigger it even further. He takes to snapping at Alexa over nonsense, getting annoyed with his friends at the silliest jabs, and on one particularly embarrassing occasion he nearly yells at a waiter for bringing him the wrong coffee order. The flood of shame is immediate, even before Jamie scoffs that he's mardy cunt, but it doesn't help counteract the feeling.

He hates that he's feeling angry, and he hates that he can't contain it, which makes him feel even angrier. It takes long, rough days for him to stop stewing in his own aggression, by which point he's pretty sure his sullenness has alienated absolutely everyone.

When the wave subsides and the remorse rears its gloomy head, he arranges olive-branch hangouts to pacify every victim of his careless frustration. The English are quick to forgive after the fourth pint, and he plans to take full advantage of the fact.

It is then that the bargaining starts to insinuate itself in the situation. Since he’s working towards fixing his fuckups, perhaps one of the furious text messages he's sending could be addressed to Miles, too. That wouldn’t go terribly, would it? They would still be safe in a group setting after all, and besides they have to see each other at some point, so why not tear off the bandaid and do it now? He could pick out an extra crowded place and minimise all interactions, if it had to come to that.

He paces kilometers around the house while he runs the idea through his head, and by the time he perches on the edge of the sofa to write it feels like he's worn grooves into his wooden floor. He works the wording of the message carefully in his head, over and over and over until the letters stop making sense anymore, he deletes and rewrites and then deletes again, and when he finally reaches a text he deems acceptable, two hours and thirty five minutes later, he presses "send" like it's a nuclear button and then promptly rushes out of the room, dropping the phone on the coffee table like it will self destruct. 

_[A]: Hey. We're meeting up with the lads in Greenwich around 9, wanna join?_

He's plucking a few disjointed strings on the guitar when the buzzing sound of a new message stills him like a frightened hare, ears perking up defensively. When no other sound comes through he takes a few even breaths, returns to the living room in measured steps, picks up the phone, and reads.

_[M]: going back to liverpool tonight_

The ensuing depression makes him long for the days of anger. 

At least then he was doing _something_ , even if that something was lashing out at anyone who so much as gave him a funny look. In this state he just sits at home, wallowing, picking up the guitar, and wallowing some more when he realises the tune his fingers have crept into was Standing Next To Me. A day passes, two, a whole weekend of perfectly sustained misery, all the while his thoughts circle around to other, equally dark times, refusing to let him escape.

It's hard to miss the obvious connection, especially with the benefit of hindsight. There was another time, not too long ago, when him and Miles were avoiding each other like this, and back then he’d been riddled with fear and uncertainty, stunned by the revelation of what he thought was one-sided need. At least this time he gets to have all the data, even if it still feels like a punch in the gut.

If only he’d had the benefit of an "I want you" before he'd thrown a fit in France, and then at least they might have been spared _that_ period of agony.

It’s that thought that sticks around longer than the others, constantly swarming back to poke holes at his consciousness, and eventually it takes centre stage over everything else. Because, he does know now. He knows exactly if Miles wants him or not, and he knows what he himself wants, too. There are a billion complications in the way, a thousand warning signs pointing him away from disaster and towards the proper path, but the fact is, he knows. The cards are on the table, and he still hasn’t placed a bet.

It's a good thing he has to pick himself up to travel to Sheffield for the holidays, otherwise he might have let himself mope well past the new year. He packs lightly, and dresses lightly too in the hopes the frost might rejuvenate him. The train station is crowded with last minute travellers, and he kisses Alexa goodbye amongst a swarm of people boarding, with the promise that they'll spend New Year's Eve together.

The journey seems longer than usual, the weather bleak and stormy all the way through, but the sky doesn't seem that dark to Alex anymore. When he trains his eyes carefully at the roiling skies, he can make out all kinds of greys and blues, slashed by white flashes of lightning somewhere far away, like a baroque painting come to life. He wonders of it's raining in Liverpool. The isolation and the stillness gets his mind racing again like the spinning wheels of the train below him, except this time it feels less like a spiral, and more of a branching out, webbing in all possible directions.

The hopelessness eases even more when he steps off, falling away with every consecutive step he takes in the familiar streets of his hometown, and by the time his mum opens the front door with a huge grin on her face, he finds he can return it earnestly.

"Hello, honey!" She gives him a hug that makes his insides melt like honey, and then she quickly ushers him inside to shield him from the cold.

“This is such a flimsy coat you’re wearing,” she chides as he enters the warm interior, taking off the offending garment along with his shoes. “It gets below zero here at night, you know it, why didn’t you pack something sturdier?”

"I’m alreyt, mum, don’t fuss.” He places a tender kiss atop her head, eliciting a fond smile. “You raised a tough lad, I don’t cower that easily, you know.”

The little voice in his head snorts condescendingly at that, reminding him that he’s done nothing _but_ cower this past week, but thankfully his dad’s arrival saves him from having to emote that truth and alert his mum to the lie.

He always finds that settling back into his old home is the easiest thing, no matter how long or how far he's travelled. Everything invites him back in, from the worn settee whose best curling spots he can find with his eyes closed, to the familiar scents of strong tea and spices coming from the kitchen, to his childhood bedroom, forever the safe sanctuary. As he sets his bag down and promptly lands on his bed, stretching his cramped legs, Penny’s concerned head emerges at the door.

“How are you feeling, love? Have you rested at all after your tour?”

“Little bit. It were just a week ago, haven’t really settled in yet.”

Penny nods, undoubtedly sizing up the eye bags under his tired eyes. “Well, you have a few months ahead to recharge, don’t you? When do you and Miles start your thing?”

Well. Even the safest of sanctuaries can be compromised, it seems.

“Early March, I reckon,” he mumbles. “We’ll be over in New York, so, that’s pretty exciting.”

To his surprise, the sour mood he anticipates at the mention of Miles doesn’t surge up. Instead, he realises he can actually feel the excitement crawling up in little tendrils inside his stomach, because the truth is he _is_ excited, and he actually can't wait to step onto a stage with Miles, to listen to their voices mingle with the audience's, to share the spotlight with him and let him call the shots.

He's let this one thing consume him so entirely this past week that it tainted all the wonderment, leaving it to wait hopelessly for its turn to be felt for real.

"He's such a lovely lad," Penny offers sweetly. "Do bring him over again sometime, we'd love to have him for a nice dinner. David is dying to chat with him about the sax again."

Alex can't help but grin at that. His parents are another pair in his life that Miles effortlessly charmed, to the point where he'd be jealous of the attention if Pauline hadn't shown him equal amounts of it the time he visited Miles' home in Birkenhead. Their parents haven't met each other yet, but Alex has every confidence that two women with identical kitchen layouts can't possibly mislike each other.

"I will, don't worry. Pretty sure we have a gig in Sheffield at some point, so I'll round him up for you."

Penny clasps her hands together in contentment, looking even more excited than when Alex arrived at the door. "Ah, brilliant. I'm leaving you to get settled then, I’ll start making the table."

Alex nods with a smile, and Penny returns it, closing the door on her way out. He sits there for a good while afterwards, half-formed thoughts and images dancing around in his head. In the stillness he picks up his phone, and writes with much more poise and confidence:

_[A]: Happy early Christmas. I hope your holidays are lovely. I miss you a lot, and I can't wait for March._

He has to wait a bit longer this time, but eventually the phone buzzes in his hand, showing the telltale envelope of a new message on the screen. He hits "Accept" with a smile.

[ _M]: I miss you too. I know everything's gonna turn out great. I told you in France, it's gonna be amazing cause it's us. Merry Christmas little prince._

Ridiculously, the first thing he registers is that things must be indeed serious if Miles is using proper punctuation. Then he reads it again, over and over until he's memorised every word and the screen becomes a blur in front of his eyes, until any trace of the storm inside him quietens and he can barely recall why he was ever worried in the first place. Even through the rockiest terrains, Miles has always been steadfast, and that security eclipses everything else, every other thing that could ever cause him worry. They will figure this out together, like they would a tricky verse or an elusive melody. This strange thing between them might unravel, or implode, or fizzle out entirely, but no matter what he won't be facing it alone. He can never drown while Miles is keeping him afloat.

He sleeps like a baby that night, hand clutching his phone under his pillow like a child holding onto his favourite blanket, keeping the monsters at bay.

\------------------

No matter how many years pass, or what he's achieved in life in terms of maturity and growth, Alex is 100% certain that he'll never embrace the winter cold. He can hardly tolerate it in the UK, penetrating and clammy and seeping into his every pore, and he certainly isn't faring better here in New York, where the ominous clouds above signal tornadoes looming on the horizon. A sharp gust of wind cleaves through him as he turns the corner, and he angrily wraps his arms around himself, futilely trying to stop the ends of his coat from flapping around and allowing the frost to swoop right under his shirt. He grunts a string of curses into the scarf covering half his face, and he starts sprinting faster down the street, and towards the bar. 

Rehearsal is something that always helps him settle before an impending gig, letting him iron out all the wrinkles in the performance and make sure he at least has all the technical aspects down pat before stepping out in front of a judging audience. When he rushes into the venue, hastily securing the door between him and the frost and looking inside, the feeling of comfort instantly starts trickling in.

Miles is sat in one of the stools of their designated stage, chatting to a chubby man that Alex is pretty sure he recognises as one of the bar owners, guitar resting anticipatorily in his lap. His head turns towards the sound of Alex's arrival, and he quirks an eyebrow.

"Well, well, look who decided to grace us with his presence, and only half an hour late!"

Alex scoffs at the sarcasm, reveling in the heating of the bar as he tosses his scarf and jacket aside. "Piss off, it's not like you had to wait outside."

"Did you oversleep?"

"No!" Alex protests. Miles blinks at him, waiting. Alex groans. "Alright, I did, but I'm jetlagged! I'm excused."

Miles rolls his eyes around a smile, and bends down to pass the acoustic to Alex. "Alright princess, hope you are refreshed at least, 'cause we're gonna go through the whole set."

Alex perches on the stool next to Miles, guitar at the ready, and flashes him a confident smile. "Born ready."

He can see Miles smile wide as he bends his head to the guitar, fingers gripping deftly on the fretboard. "One, two, three, four--"

\-----------------------------

"Fuck," Miles sighs afterwards as they sink into a booth, carefully setting their sloshing pints onto the table. "That was boss. We're gonna do so well tonight."

Alex smiles under the bear foam, taking a careful gulp from the overflowing glass. "I know." 

It elicits a careful side-eye from Miles. "Oh? None of the usual self-deprecation? Finally convinced you, didn't I?"

Alex shrugs. He isn't sure if it's mostly Miles' constant praises and reassurances, or the objectively stellar rehearsal, or a heady mixture of both that's got his blood buzzing in his veins, but it's the most confident he's been about a gig since he can remember. "Maybe. You do have a way."

Miles smiles. "You looked anxious when you came in, alright. Like a little bunny, all perky ears and pink nose." His hand disappears behind Alex, and suddenly Alex can feel him rubbing rhythmic strokes along his back, as if trying to calm this previous anxiety. His palm is moving over the thick material of his jumper, but Alex feels it as if it were travelling right on his bare skin. In an instant, any thoughts about the gig, or anything else, vaporise.

"We need to talk about it."

Miles' hand stills. His face is half surprised, like he wasn’t expecting Alex to broach the subject like this, and honestly, Alex isn't sure he fully intended to either before the words flew out of his mouth, but all of a sudden it feels imperative. They never openly addressed the elephant in the room after Manchester, and Alex was happy to mostly ignore it as the days passed with half the country between the two of them, but now their tour is literally hours from starting, and the Alex fears that if they ignore it any longer, the elephant will end up crushing them. The warm hand leaves his back, and Alex clenches his jaw at the loss.

"Right," Miles says, taking a sip of his pint. "Not sure there's much to be said, though, is there? I mean, we both know what's going on. We both knew what we were bringing over from France."

 _I didn't!_ Alex wants to whine _. I thought I buried it there! Why didn't you tell me too, if you knew?_ "Well, that's true. But there's the matter of moving forward."

Miles looks at him carefully. Alex can feel the ground shifting beneath his feet, getting shaky. "Forward?"

Alex swallows. "Well, yeah. With the tour and everything."

"Right." Miles' leg is bouncing under the table, but Alex doesn't dare move a hand yet to still it. "Well, we'll be more careful. Keep more of a distance if that’s what you want. I know it's gonna be weird."

Alex stares at him, uncomprehending. "Distance? What are you talking about?"

Miles stares back at him, equally confused, and Alex reckons they must look like a puppy staring at itself in a mirror for the first time. "What are _you_ talking about?"

Alex opens his mouth, and closes it again. He knows he's the one that brought on the discussion, but he didn't expect Miles to make him _say_ everything. He was certain they'd be on the same wavelength as always, and Miles would do the heavy lifting for him by translating his thoughts. Apparently, he's gonna have to labour for it.

"I meant that," he exhales, "y'know, we could-- when we're abroad, or somewhere far away and it's just us, we could still--" 

Fuck. He can feel his soul wilting away every time he pauses or stumbles, but the proper words still don't manifest themselves, even though the concept he's trying to convey is maddeningly simple.

"Oh." Miles says, stilling completely. Alex stares at him intently, trying to glean even the tiniest hint of understanding from his expression. The connection lagged for a bit, but he hopes it's back up and running again. Miles leans in fractionally closer, and Alex follows him in, holding his breath.

Miles looks almost puzzled, but something has shifted in his expression too, softness creeping in. "You wanna keep going like before?"

Alex feels the breath rush out of his lungs so violently he almost doubles over. 

"Yes," he sighs, closing his eyes, and it feels like a tonne has been lifted off his chest after months and months of trying to pretend it didn’t exist. "Yeah, I do."

Miles blinks at him. "What about Alexa?"

Alex swallows around the knot in his throat and sits up, because this part at least he can handle. He won't readily admit it, but he spent a considerable amount of time the past few weeks trying to find the path of least resistance for them to travel through, if they both decided to go ahead, and he’s already got a plan in mind. "It would be the same principle as the studio, really. When she's here we're together, and that's that. When we're apart 'cause of touring, we're allowed to sleep around. She won't be around for most of the dates, so we're good."

He hates himself for it, but that last fact gave him a swarming thrill the first time he realised. Outwardly he’d commiserated with Alexa for her work engagements keeping her apart from him, but inside the excitement was bubbling in his gut, threatening to spill over. It wasn't unreasonable, he’d tried to convince himself. This was all physical, and he hadn't touched Miles in five months now. He couldn't stop his body from yearning.

Miles snaps him out of his thoughts by suddenly lifting his pint to his mouth, draining half of it in a decisive gulp that makes his throat muscles ripple, and now Alex doesn't even bother stopping himself from staring until Miles sets his glass down.

"Alright." He sounds winded. Alex almost closes his eyes in relief, but Miles fixes a stare at him so intense he has no choice but to stay pinned. "But promise me one thing."

"Anything."

Miles turns fully towards him, serious as death, and on impulse Alex's hand shoots forward, grabbing his on the table.

"No matter what happens, things won't change." Miles sounds pained almost, and Alex squeezes harder, trying to communicate where words fail him. "Promise me that no matter what, we won't let it change our friendship, and no matter what, it won't ever get strange and awkward again like it did after Manchester." 

Alex doesn't know what to say for a moment. The words swim around his head as if caught in a whirlpool, and then it sinks in how miserable his existence would be in a universe where he didn't have Miles, in a universe where he lost him.

He extends the pinky finger of the hand still clutching Miles, and smiles. "Promise."

Miles huffs out a laugh, and then his own pinky is rising to wrap around Alex's, sealing their deal in the most sacred of ways. “Promise.”

The moment settles warmly around them, and Alex wants to scream, or jump on the table, or grab Miles by the lapels and kiss him like they’re secluded in a sunny forest, leaves tumbling around them. Unfortunately all three of those things are ill-advised in their current location, so he holds them in, grabbing Miles’ hand tighter instead. His face has turned the gentlest shade of pink, high on his cheekbones, and Alex can see the contentment bubbling through him as well. 

“So, then,” Miles says. “we’re alone now.”

“We are.” Alex says, feeling his pulse kick right in the hollow of his throat. “So let’s say we begin effective tonight?”

Miles grins so wide it threatens to swallow up his entire face, and Alex is in the hallway again, falling. “Effective tonight.” 


	3. adoration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a savage little bitch to write, but I'm, um, pretty happy with it! enjoyy

We are The Last Shadow Puppets everybody, thank you for coming in, goodnight!”

The small crowd erupts into applause and it’s as if every clap connects to Alex’s racing heart, sending his blood flooding into his limbs as he sets his guitar down with a smile. They did it. The first Puppets gig, and it went as perfectly as he could ever imagine it, every chord in tune, every note in harmony. The fans crammed into the tiny shop to watch them, along with a few photographers, and if he thought he would feel scrutinized and judged in such a small space, he needn’t have worried. All he could feel was the thrum of excitement pulsing in his belly throughout all seven songs, and now he isn’t sure he wants to stop just yet. Seven songs is quite a short set, anyway. Maybe they can start all over again, throw in a few b-sides, do a whole encore.

Miles hops down from the stool, radiant and tousled, and wraps a strong arm around him, dragging him close. 

"Not bad, ey, Al? Not fucking bad at all."

"Not bad," Alex agrees laughing, letting Miles drag him over to the sofa in the back of the shop so they can immediately jump into the after-party. Miles always gets sweaty and flustered during gigs, and Alex can smell it on him now, emanating from his every pore and mixing with his cologne. It's a heady smell and in the close proximity it hits Alex like a solid weight, propelling him back to another time, in another small bar like this, far away.

He inches closer to Miles when they collapse on the sofa, letting his thigh press against his, just because he can.

The audience has started dispersing up front, either going towards the bar for drinks or leaving altogether, and the waiter brings celebratory drinks over to the chorus of the one remaining camera shutter. The alcohol starts flowing liberally, and Alex downs the first rounds in earnest, but as the buzz starts creeping in, making him tingle, his hands start to wander more and more towards Miles, perching on his leg, resting on the small of his back. Miles leans into him like a vine, arm looping around Alex's front to tousle the side of his hair, and he decides right then he's pacing the drinks tonight. This isn't a night he wants to be stumbling through, or forgetting.

"Fuck, Al." Miles sighs contently, reaching forward to grab a sip of some fruity mixed drink. "That was brilliant. Why did it take us so long? We should do one every week!"

"Every day," giggles Alex.

"Every hour." 

They fall into a round of laughter, and Alex realises how close he's let himself slide, practically straddling Miles' lap. The scent is getting less powerful by the minute as Alex's nostrils grow accustomed to it, and he hates his brain for that. He wants to get to it again, nose in the crook of Miles' neck and under his armpit, where he knows it'll be stronger.

Miles is staring at him now, like he has a radar in his head alerting him to every naughty thought crossing Alex's head, and the arm draped on the sofa behind him rises slowly, fingers caressing the swirling strands of hair right behind Alex's ear. Behind the ear, that's another part where the scent is intoxicating, right into the roots of his hair.

"Mi," he says, and his voice comes out rough, uneven. "I think I'm ready to leave now."

Miles exhales softly, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. Scratch that, Alex is fully certain he's ready to leave.

"Ok, yeah. Me too."

Alex nods eagerly as Miles gets up in a rush to have a muted word with the bar owner, still serving drinks around, and then in a flurry of action he barely registers they get their coats on, their stuff pocketed, and they're rushing out into the New York streets, leaving the party behind.

Even if he were legitimately drunk, the searing cold that slams him as soon as he steps out of the door would be enough to jolt him into full awareness. As it is, he just wraps his arms around himself, cursing every deity known to man, until Miles moves next to him, wrapping him in a tight one-armed hug, rubbing those maddening circles on his back. "Come on, come on Al, we'll get you warmed up soon enough, ey?"

The 'soon enough' seems to be right now, because the words send an immediate jolt of heat down his spine, stoked by the way Miles' hand moves on him. To his absolute terror, he realises that the chances of him doing something very stupid and very public are rapidly increasing by the second.

In an instant he's disengaged from Miles, and getting out into the street in search. Given that they're in New York, a yellow taxi appears almost immediately in his line of sight and he hails it gratefully. Miles, who blessedly and annoyingly doesn't seem to be deterred by any of that, moves behind him to secure him by the waist, ushering him through the open door of the taxi, and into the warm interior. He calls out their hotel name to their driver, and then they're off speeding into the boulevard.

The radio is playing some generic R&B tune that Alex doesn't recognise, yet it does the trick all the same. The bass is low, reverberating through the speakers and into the hollows of his spine, coupled with the rhythmic vibration of the moving car, and it steadily floods him, beat by beat. The windows are foggy with condensation, and the driver seems fixated on the road ahead. It feels like they're stranded somewhere in space, just him and Miles' solid weight against his side.

He doesn't stop to think much, not even pulling his eyes from the blurry window to his side, as he slowly moves a hand on Miles' spread leg, caressing upwards until he reaches his upper thigh, pausing. The material of his jeans feels coarse and slightly chilly, but right underneath he can feel Miles' thigh muscle stiffen, and then flex under his fingers. He squeezes back reflexively, and he hears just the tiniest sharp inhale from his side, but Miles' surprise doesn't last long, just as he'd hoped. The next second his legs fall open incrementally wider, and then Alex feels a warm palm covering his own, intercut only by the cool metal of a ring. Miles curls his fingers around Alex's, and without any hesitation or apprehension he pulls Alex's hand up, right where he's already half-stiff inside his trousers.

It takes enormous willpower on Alex's part not to drop immediately to his knees in the small space under the seat and suck him off right there in front of the driver, and possibly half the city of New York.

Instead, he lets his eyes slip closed, focusing only on the sensation of Miles growing harder under his palm as he starts surreptitiously stroking, molding his fingers over the swell, under the ridges and contours as Miles' jeans start to tent. Miles' hand doesn't guide him any further, merely letting his fingers ghost over Alex's knuckles, thumb grazing the pulse point of his wrist like Miles is trying to map out his hand the way Alex is mapping out his cock. He can hear the way Miles' breathing is steadily getting shallower, can feel his hips twitch under his arm in his effort not to push up into Alex's grip, or haul himself out and push Alex down by the hair. It's exactly the same as before, he realises while the car vibrations keep rocking him gently, and his own cock starts aching in his pants. It's exactly the same as France, and probably even better, because France is only a memory, while this solid weight between his fingers is real, is all that  _ feels _ real in this very second. 

The taxi lurches to a stop, and Alex's fist automatically clenches at the momentum shift. Thankfully Miles' ensuing grunt is muffled by the screeching tires.

"We're here," the cabbie deadpans, breaking the trance. "That'll be $25."

Their hands fly off each other in a spell, and before Alex manages to fully recover his faculties, Miles is already handing a few green bills to the driver. 

"There you go, thank you." The look he pins Alex with before turning to open the door would have been enough to get him hard all at once even if he weren't already, uncomfortably bulging in his jeans. It's a look he's seen a few times before, the glint in Miles' eyes that declares he'll rise to Alex's challenge, and make him regret even posing it in the first place. Without a word they scramble off the taxi and in through the glass doors of the hotel. Alex has to mentally concede that cold weather has at least one upside, namely the heavy coat that is covering the obvious hardness in his jeans as he waddles forward, each step rubbing and tugging at him just on this side of uncomfortable as they rush towards the elevators _.  _

They step in behind an elderly pair of tourists, just barely inching through the closing doors. The pair are going a floor above them, he notices as he hits the button on the panel, so they’ll be sharing the entire ride up. The half-formed plan in his head about possibly starting their reconciliation a few floors early dissipates, and then his eyes catch Miles’ again on the reflective surface of the doors ahead. 

This elevator is too bloody slow, and too bloody crowded.

It feels like a year later when the doors slide open to reveal the 5th floor corridor, and Miles’ hand hooks under his elbow, dragging him along, a terribly familiar gesture that makes sparks fly in his belly, makes his jeans even tighter, and he basically runs ahead of him to the door, tripping over his feet to turn the key on the lock with a shaky hand.

The room feels nearly soundproof when the door closes behind them, submerging them in silence. Miles is standing close enough to see clearly, illuminated by the yellow lights of the city outside, hair curling around his ears and forehead and shoulders shifting with labored breathing, eyes blazing like coals. He can hear their ragged breaths like they're screams, Alex thinks, and then the clatter of the keys hitting the floor as Miles moves forward, and crashes their mouths together.

He can't help the moan of relief catching at the back of his throat as he lets himself be pushed backwards, immediately followed by a grunt when his back harshly connects to the wall behind him. Miles pulls off. “Fuck, sorr-”

Alex’s hands fly to Miles’ nape and yank him in again, and the rest of the apology gets lost in Alex’s mouth as they start kissing and kissing, hands flying everywhere, everything kicking into high gear.

It’s such an onslaught to every one of his senses, drowning him in everything he’s forgotten that his knees buckle, and Miles is there, pushing forward into him and groping his thigh, letting Alex’s leg wrap around the back of his knee. Everything is cascading into Alex’s synapses, making them fire off like Christmas fireworks behind his eyelids: The heady scent he’s been seeking out all night, right under his nose now, tantalising. The taste of Miles’ mouth after a night of drinking, sharp and sweet with alcohol and cigarettes and minty chewing gum, running all over his tongue as he slides it into Miles’ inviting mouth. But most of all the touch, the skinny yet strong shoulders he grips at after he pushes Miles’ jacket off of him, the lean waist and the strong hips underneath where he fits his own, feeling Miles' cock grind up against him.

They moan simultaneously at the contact and Miles pushes off again, hot and breathless. Alex moves in to capture his lips again, greedy, but this time Miles doesn't let him. Suddenly he feels his head being pulled backwards roughly by the hair, neck exposed to the cool air. Miles licks a long, hot stripe along his jugular, ending just below Alex's tingling ear. 

"Tell me what you want," he rasps, fingers of his other hand deftly undoing Alex's coat and dropping it to the floor. "Tell me."

A thousand answers dash through his head, each more absurd and obscene than the other, but they all fade out into one, pulsing into his very core, spreading outwards into his aching pelvis, his shaking limbs, his twitching jaw.

"I want you down my throat."

He can feel Miles' exhale raise goosebumps along his throat and then they're kissing again, so harshly Alex thinks he can taste blood. It feels good, it feels bloody brilliant really, letting Miles consume him like a rabid animal, but now that he's articulated his need he suddenly can't wait a single second longer to make it real, not for anything in the world. 

He twists Miles' sweater in his fists and disentangles his leg, pushing him backwards into the opposite wall, and this time Miles definitely tears into his lip with his teeth, pain surging sharp. He barely pays it any attention. Ever since he was little he'd been told he could get borderline obsessive when he got his mind set on something, and he can feel it now, everything falling away, leaving just Miles' body in focus, the hardness in his jeans right in the epicenter, beckoning.

He isn't sure which comes first, him falling to his knees of his own accord or Miles' hand pulling him down by the hair, but they happen so close to one another it makes no difference. He doesn't waste any time with preamble or teasing, knowing they're both far past it, so he just rips the button open, tugs harshly on the zipper and yanks his trousers down along with his underwear in one rough motion. Miles' cock springs out, finally free, resting up against his belly, and Alex was wrong, he does have time for some preamble, because he just has to stop and  _ look _ . His cock is fully hard, curved and thick just as Alex remembers, and he brings a hand up to stroke it once, tugging backwards to reveal the cherry red tip, already wet. Fuck, he'd forgotten how wonderful Miles looks from this angle, commanding and powerful, everything about him communicating that he'll take care of Alex, that he doesn't have to worry about anything ever again. His sweetness doesn't vanish altogether, it never can, evident in the way the hand curls and releases in Alex's hair, never letting the pressure get too painful. Alex almost wants to rise back up and kiss him, but instead he just sways forward, burying his nose in the dark curls in Miles' groin, and inhales. 

_ Oh _ , there it is. There is the scent he's been searching after all night, musky and heady and overwhelming in the best of ways, eclipsing everything else. He drags his head sideways, opening his mouth to let his bottom lip catch the shaft of Miles' cock, and then he's fitting his lips around the tip, and sinking down.

Miles' hips immediately surge forward with a gasp, his other hand flying to mirror the position of the first, and his cock nudges the back of Alex's throat, making him splutter on first contact. It's been so long, too long, and for a moment he fears his body has forgotten how to react, how to please Miles, but then he looks up at his face, awe-stricken and dominant all at once, and everything unlocks.

He starts bobbing his head up and down faster, relaxing his throat to sink as far down as he can go, and then back up again. This is how Miles liked it in France, how Alex coaxed evrh single possible sound of pleasure out of him, and it still works just as it used to, judging by the way his fingers clench on Alex's head, by the frantic stutter of his hips forward, getting Alex to take him just that inch further until his nose is practically touching Miles' pelvis, and most of all by the litany of praise and curses mumbled above his head.

"That's it, baby,  _ fuck _ , that's it, you've got such a pretty mouth, Alex, I've been thinking about it all night, every time you put your lips on that microphone."

Alex lets out a muffled moan, working himself down even faster until he can feel spit bubbling on the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin and his throat. God, he thought about it, too, but he started way before tonight, feeling a familiar tug in his stomach for months every time he approached a mic, or wrapped his lips around a beer bottle. It physically pains him that he's that needy, that subjugated to his desires, but at least he's safe knowing that Miles loves them too, wants them, stokes them into a blaze.

He pulls off with a gasp, coughing, but Miles doesn't let him leave off for too long.

"Come on, don't stop now--" and his hand moves to cradle the side of Alex's head, the other resting on top like he's giving him a benediction, and Alex wraps his lips around him again, agonised, moving so far down he gags, and then pushing even more.

He can feel himself throb in his jeans, worked up beyond belief and ignored for way too long, so he moves a shaky hand to unbutton his trousers, but Miles' voice cracks like a whip through the obscene noises permeating the room.

"Don't. You don't get to, yet."

Alex inwardly curses the whimper that leaves his abused throat, and curses even more at how collected Miles can make himself sound even while Alex is trying to suck the soul out of his cock. Still, his trembling hand returns to curl on his thigh, and he looks up to find Miles smiling, and panting.

"Come on Al, you know I'll make it good for you, don't ya?"

And fuck, he knows. It's never anything but good when Miles is involved.

He keeps at it eagerly, not tearing his eyes from Miles', and he can see the effect it has already, Miles' hand flexing on his scalp and his cheek, pushing him down even more roughly, his moans rising steadily in volume, making Alex twitch where he's still painfully, horribly trapped inside his pants.

"Fuck, you look so beautiful like this Al," he gasps and Alex's cheeks flare up, impossibly embarrassed despite his current position. "I'm gonna come in your mouth, do you want that baby?"

Alex does his best to nod around a mouthful, and he sets a brutal pace for those last few seconds, urging Miles to explode. He can almost taste how close he is, and he wants to have it with such an intensity he almost doubles over on Miles' lap.

Miles' hips snap forward with a raw moan, burying him so deep in Alex's mouth he feels a fleeting surge of panic, and then he's tossing his head back and unloading down Alex's throat, and Alex almost wants to cry at how good it is to be like this again, to taste Miles heavy and salty on his tongue, to let him fill him up so completely he feels himself overflow. He swallows and swallows, until Miles' hips stop twitching against his face, until he's so sensitive he has to pull out with a choked off moan, hands petting Alex's head for a job well done.

He faintly registers someone wheezing painfully, and it takes a few seconds for him to realise it's coming from him, knelt on the floor and trembling, trying to suck in desperate breaths through a ravaged mouth, dripping spit and cum all the way down his shirt. Each agonised breath morphs into a whine at the end, inescapable, and then Miles is kneeling down in front of him, dotting frantic kisses on his mouth and undoing his trousers with purpose. 

The next thing he knows his back is pushed against the carpeted floor, and Miles is hastily popping off the buttons in his shirt, sucking searing kisses into every exposed bit of torso he can get. Alex wants to kick him, wants to say stop teasing and push his hips into him greedily, wants to ask what he's gonna do, but his brain is melted and his throat is wrecked, so he just moans at the wet heat of Miles' mouth and spreads his legs, trusting him implicitly.

When Miles wraps his mouth around his neglected cock he thinks he might start sobbing. The need has been building up for what feels like hours now, and he feels like a spring coiled to the extreme, compounding energy until it inevitably springs forward.

Miles sucks him in earnest, letting his tongue swipe wet lines at the underside, and it only takes one particut hard suck on the swollen head to make him lose it, coming hard inside Miles' mouth, whimpering like a wounded animal. 

For what feels like hours he lies there prone, unable to move a single muscle, even though the tacky floor is getting more and more uncomfortable with each passing second. Miles crawls up his body, and collapses next to him with a content sigh, leg draped across Alex's own. How did he ever think he could give this up? It seemed like an incontrovertible truth a few months ago, as he was morosely riding away from the French countryside, but now it feels like the most ridiculous notion in the world, as if he had been trying to convince himself that the sky is green and now he is finally gazing upwards, mesmerised. He's so amused with his past self that the laughter bubbles up unwittingly, escaping in the form of scratchy coughs, turning into a wince when he registers the sting on his bottom lip again.

"Fuck," he says simply. He doesn't even sound like himself. The sound alone is very nearly enough to get him going again.

"Fuck," replies Miles, sounding sleepy.

"Are we gonna sleep on the floor?"

"Not a chance. There's a perfectly good bed right over there." Miles' arm rises to gesture vaguely at the room behind them, and Alex smiles.

"Wow, I had no clue. Thought it were just this corridor."

As the euphoria subsides the physical toll of the night begins to make its presence known, and Alex vaguely catalogues the stickiness around his mouth and throat, the pinpricks dancing around his scalp, the utterly wrecked state of his shirt, and the dull ache in his jaw and throat, which are probably gonna feel worse tomorrow.

He's never felt happier about physical ailments before.

The filthiness, however, is starting to get annoying.

"Alright," he grunts, painstakingly rising to a sitting position, feeling woozy and sated. "Shower time." He turns around to look at Miles, sprawled half-undressed on the floor like he's reclining on a chaise. "Will you go first, or should I?"

Miles blinks at him for a long moment, and then they both burst into laughter, Miles hopping onto his feet to help haul him up, before they disappear together into the pristine white bathroom.

\-----------------

"Can't believe the next one is a month away."

They've finally succumbed onto the sweet, soft hotel mattress, neither bothering to put on clothes after scrubbing each other clean in the shower, constantly distracted by the need to start kissing again. Miles is on his back, all but starfishing his long, slender limbs across the bed, and Alex is curled around him like an octopus, leg twined around Miles' own and fingers tracing idly over Miles' bony rib cage. 

"I know," he says, eyes slipping closed as he inhales deeply. They're in his room, so Miles used his soap to wash up, and now he smells like a mixture of both of them. He's not sure which version he prefers, but he knows both make his heart kick under his ribs, in very different ways. "Maybe we can do surprise gigs, put out a guitar case in Victoria Park and just sing for the passerby."

He feels Miles' abdomen twitch with silent laughter, and then a hand grazes the back of his head, long fingers gently caressing the damp strands. "Yeah, we could. But I suppose there's something to be said about having too much of a good thing."

Alex lifts his head to look at him, eyebrow cocked. "Is there?"

Miles' eyes trace over his face, and then his mouth quirks into a tiny smile. "No, not really."

They meet exactly halfway for the kiss, lips moving against each other soft and unhurried, until Alex feels another spark of pain. 

"Fuck," he grunts, pulling away. He runs his tongue against the cut on his lip, and the taste of fresh blood sinks into his taste buds. "You're such an animal."

"Yeah,  _ now _ you're complaining," quips Miles with a smile. "And it's not my fault, besides, with how dry your lips are."

"Oh? It's my fault then?"

"Absolutely. But here, I'll kiss it better so you'll see how charitable I am."

It's much harder to kiss successfully the second time around when they're both laughing, Alex making a half-hearted attempt to push Miles away. He doesn't get anywhere, obviously, especially not when Miles slides on top of him, gently pinning his forearms above his head. Miles does, however, move his lips slightly to the side, avoiding the split on Alex's lip as much as he can, and Alex feels a trapped dove inside his stomach, batting its wings to try and fly free. 

"I  _ am _ sorry about it, you know." Miles whispers against his mouth, planting another tiny kiss on the side. "Does it hurt much?"

Alex opens his eyes, and takes in the image above him, Miles with his hair drying in waves around his flushed face, eyes sparkling and bright, lit by the far-away street lights of New York City. 

"It hurts in the best way possible."

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come talk to me @gasdancer!


	4. transgression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was literally going to be the prologue to the meat of the chapter, but then it started growing and growing and then it became its own thing, and then that kind of shifted the direction of the next chapter too, which I had to work through, so anyway kids definitely write fanfiction in your free time, it's all fun and no soul crushing anxiety whatsoever

Alex isn't sure which it is that wakes him up first, but it happens like edging out of a dream, an effortless glide from unconsciousness to reality.

The sun rays are cutting through the half open curtains, forever sharp despite the low temperatures, poking directly at his closed eyelids. The ensuing grimace he makes alerts him to the tug at his jaw, more insistent now that it's had time to settle into the muscles of face, aching when he tries even the slightest movement. The next thing he registers, however, is the one that manages to elbow past everything else and occupy the spotlight of his attention, arrowing it down to his aching groin. Through the haze of sleep he reckons he's just experiencing a morning stiffy, but then the heat keeps building, swelling like a tidal wave to his legs and his stomach, and that's when he fully comes to, and takes notice of the warm and slender hand, lazily stroking him awake.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty." The Liverpool accent tingles in his ear, making the hair in his nape prickle up contently, and he stretches his sleep-stiff body with a sigh, widening his legs to give Miles' hand more room. 

"'Mornin," he rasps. His voice sounds garbled still, but he reasons part of it is the sleep gruffness. He places a hand atop of Miles', urging him to pick up the speed from the teasing pace he's set up. "Breakfast in bed, then?"

"I'm not putting it in me mouth, if that's what you mean." Miles is curled up on Alex's side, pressing his own hardness in Alex's hip. "S'too early for that."

Alex smiles as he snakes a hand down to curl around Miles' as well, turning his head so their heads are nestled together, noses tucked against each other over the pillow.

It takes them an eternity to come, between their languid stroking and frequent pauses to laugh at the stupid jokes Miles thinks is appropriate to crack during a wank, or the comments about their stinky morning breath. Alex feels like he's floating, soaring into a white fluffy cloud, getting higher and higher, closer to the sun as Miles strokes him, urging him on with little bites along his earshell and breathless laughter into his neck, and he flashes back to the first time they did this in France, just as giddy and excited at the new reality of getting to touch and kiss and taste. This time though it's not headed towards the same ending, he knows. There will be no more tears at the end of the line. 

When they finish each other off after what feels like hours, Alex takes a look at their now sticky, sweaty bodies and decides it's the perfect time to test out the hot tub in the bathroom and Miles is more than eager to agree. 

The water rolls and bubbles like it's boiling in the big marble tub, but a tentative dip of his toe reassures him he won't shed a layer of skin by getting inside. He nearly hits Miles over the head when he gleefully upends half of Alex's bodywash into the water, squeaking in protest when Miles tosses aside the half empty bottle and sinking into the tub opposite Alex.

"You didn't have to finish the whole thing, ya knob!"

"Oh, pipe down, I'll get ye another one. Look how nice it's getting." He waves his hands through the bubbling water with a smile as the foam starts frothing out, bulking jovially between Miles' fingertips. He looks like a little kid playing in the bathtub with his plastic toys, and Alex has to admit to himself that it's looking quite relaxing, bubbles swarming in a rainbow glint all around Miles' head. 

"Don't wanna run out, hotel soap makes me all red and itchy," he pouts nonetheless. 

Miles smiles knowingly at his expression, leaning in through the bubble cloud to press a playful kiss on Alex's puckered lips, and Alex feels the warm contentment of success tint his cheeks. 

"Aw, my boy's got sensitive skin, does he?"

Alex fights hard not to let a smile crack through the facade, and he nods mournfully as he wraps his legs around Miles' hips under the water, dragging his wet body closer.

"Well, you won't be needing it soon, anyway. No hotels for a month."

The pout turns real in the span of a second. The tour is no different than any other, in that they get a burst of consecutive gigs, jumping from one city to the next amidst long weeks of breaks. Weeks during which they'll most likely be half a country apart.

"Will you be coming over at all? You can stay with us in London."

Miles lifts and eyebrow. "Come third-wheel for you and Alexa? Sure, why not."

Alex's cheeks heat up as he considers how idiotic the offer sounded, but it's not enough to stop him from pursuing it.

"I just-- I meant that I don't wanna go a whole month without seeing you. Maybe you can come over when Alexa is out of town and..." 

He doesn't finish that train of thought, stomach twisting uncomfortably at the implication, but Miles simply smiles and bends to press a kiss on his flared up cheekbone, soapy hands caressing gently up and down Alex's biceps. 

"I promise I'll be coming by as much as I can." 

Alex releases the breath he didn't realise he was holding. Miles' finger swipes at a chunk of foam as if tasting whipped cream off the top of a cake, tucking it on the tip of Alex's nose. "I don't want to stop seeing you either, ya wally."

Alex smiles, scrunching up his nose to let the foam slide off, and he closes the distance between them for another kiss, soft and earnest. Miles returns it every part as tenderly as Alex gives it, pushing Alex back to sink into the soft bubbles, and they don't pull apart for ages, until the foam dissipates and the water starts getting cold around them, raising goosebumps on their wet skin. Alex is still wrapped around Miles like a vine when he eventually pulls away, pruny, jaw throbbing again and lip tingling at the spot where it's already beginning to heal, but it all feels far away, like he's watching it from the top of a mountain. The dreaminess doesn't doesn't part for a good while, not when he's packing his tiny carry-on, Miles tossing the wrinkled shirt from the gig on his head with a grin, or when they catch a taxi to the airport, snickering to each other at last night's memories, or even on the long flight home, when he falls asleep on Miles' shoulder not thirty minutes into the flight. It does however simmer down enough for him to realise the knot in his stomach never fully untied.

\--------------

Miles makes good on his promise, as Alex knew he would, and he finds himself getting down to the station to receive him more and more often as spring blooms around him, blossoming in patches around the brick and steel of Central London. Miles hops off the train from Liverpool with a different meat delicacy from Pauline every time, and a different scarf and jacket as the weather mellows, but his smile is always the same, along with the pinpricks it triggers inside Alex’s chest. They always laugh when they hug hello, and Miles always ruffles his ever growing hair, like an unconscious tic.

Alexa is always there too, when he opens the door to usher them in the flat.

The first few times he chalks it up to coincidence, but one day when Alexa takes the train to visit her parents in Oxford he shoots a quick text to Miles, alerting him to the empty house, only to be met with evasive maneuvering.

_ [M]: think I’m coming down with something maybe in a few days x _

The word LIE flashes scarlet in his head, considering how he’d spoken with him on the phone only last night and he seemed perfectly healthy, and then the snakes start coiling in his stomach again. He imagines him and Miles alone in his flat, getting up to all sorts of fuckery, having to get dressed in a flash at the sound of keys at the door. It’s an uncomfortable image, skirting way too close to words he’s been trying to avoid, like  _ deceit _ and  _ betrayal _ , and he wonders if Miles was thinking of them too when he rejected the offer, if he was trying to protect Alex from himself. He wonders what his own lack of hesitation makes him.

He never contacts Miles again when Alexa is out of town, but he never stops thinking about it, either.

The times when she’s there and Miles is too, when she greets them with a smile and a kiss on both their cheeks, it becomes very easy to feel normal, the way he did before. They laugh, and they play board games and get drunk, they go out in crowded pubs and overhyped parties until the morning, and then Miles hops on the train again, and Alex watches him ride away until the train disappears into the distance.

Their parents decide to come down to watch them perform on Jools Holland in April, and it goes exactly how Alex imagined it, and then some. His mum and Pauline get on like they’ve been friends for years, and her bawdy humour, so reminiscent of Miles’, gets his dad chuckling like schoolboy, elbowing Penny to see if she found the jokes as funny as he did. Alex watches them mesmerised, couped up in their little bubble like old friends reuniting, and at some point he realises Miles has come up beside him, watching along.

“How about that, huh?” he smiles. 

“I knew it,” says Alex, even though he never even dreamed it, not like this. “They were bound to love each other.”

“‘Course they were.” Miles looks like a proper stunner tonight, in his leather jacket and black jeans. Alex is in the same getup, following their little dress protocol, but he feels like he pales in comparison, an imitator next to a real rockstar. “They take after their sons.”

The snakes slither around his ribcage, wrapping around his throat. 

It gets progressively harder to keep himself in check, to remind himself that there are people around, people watching, because he sees Miles plenty just as he wanted, but never in the way he truly wants to. It’s even worse than the period before New York, because at least then he had believed it to be over, and he had locked it up somewhere far away in his mind, where it wouldn’t be bothersome or pressing. Now he knows that it’s a mere inch away, always right on the edge of his fingertips, but something is always there to pull him back, someone is always there to give him pause. Alexa is always in the background too, making them dinner and pouring them drinks and cheering them on from side stage, and he catches himself likening her presence to a watchdog more than once, to his immediate shame. He finds himself frantically counting down the days to October, when their tour is gonna kick off for good and he will finally run away and have Miles all to himself. 

He hates that his mind makes him feel like a convict waiting for escape, but he can’t make it stop, only watch like a numb bystander as it grows and festers until the inevitable burst.

It’s a warm evening in late May, and Miles is at home with them again, all three sprawled on the floor next to the sofa, snoozing. It’s barely 8pm, but since Miles has some tour dates with the Rascals the coming weeks this is probably the last Alex will be seeing of him before Glastonbury, and they unanimously decided they should get pissed as a farewell. Empty beer bottles litter the coffee table, rattling when Miles rests his hand there to get up. Alex feels the pleasant buzz tingle in his limbs, not enough to make him drunk but just right to get him soft and pliant, basking in the blazing rays of the sunset seeping through the window. 

“Right,” grunts Miles, stretching his long limbs. “I better run to catch the train. It’s been boss today Lex, you need to teach me that bolognese recipe.”

“Yeah sure, you, um,” Alexa rubs her eye lazily, reclining her head on the seat of the sofa like a pillow, “you put the mince in wine and you boil it.”

Miles chuckles as he puts on his coat. “Brilliant. You should get into catering.”

Alexa gives a smiley thumbs up as Alex rises too, laughing along. “Alright, I’m walking Miles out. You’ll get the bottles, right Lex?”

Alexa nods with her eyes closed, but he hears her mumble to herself as they turn to the hallway. “Typical, the woman has to clean ever’thing up like a slave.”

“I’ll help you out in a bit,” he calls out over Miles’ laughter opening the door to the breezy spring evening. Miles stays at the doorstep, soft smile playing over his lips. “So, see you in a few weeks.”

Alex scoffs. “You think I won’t come by to see you perform with the Rascals? You’ve got another thing coming.”

Miles smiles even wider, leaning on the doorframe. The weather has been warming up steadily as they head into the summer, and he’s taken to wearing leather jackets and tight jeans that fit perfectly on his lanky frame. Alex steps closer to the edge of the doorstep, mirroring Miles’ stance on the door. “Ah, can’t keep away, can you?”

He knows it’s a joke. His logical brain is lining up a dozen playful responses in return, an array of eyerolls and scoffs, but his body disregards every single command, and instead he’s capturing Miles’ lips in his own, hand flying to his neck to keep him secure, to make sure he goes nowhere until he gets his fill.

The worst part, and the absolute  _ best  _ part, is how eagerly Miles responds, not even a moment’s hesitation before his hand circles Alex’s neck like a vice and he pushes Alex against the door, body a hot line against his own. His brain goes quiet in a snap, pure, raw instinct taking over as he fists his other hand in Miles’ jacket, kissing him wildly, harder and harder--

The clatter of bottles cracks into his ears like a whip, and in an instant him and Miles pull apart, Miles’ eyes wide and sparkling with alarm. Alexa’s dejected voice comes a second later, still safely in the other room.  _ “Ah, fuck.” _

Relief pours down his limbs at not getting caught, but it doesn’t last for long, vaporising entirely when he locks eyes with Miles, both of them still panting harshly. Miles looks like he’s woken up from a particularly unsettling dream, and Alex wants to kick himself, wants to punch a wall, wants to go wrap himself around Alexa and stay here and kiss Miles all at the same time. What he does do is stay frozen, staring at Miles as if to take a cue, but Miles simply takes a deep breath, and looks up with a carefully blank expression.

“Sorry.”

Alex stays there long after the door slams closed behind him, sinking into the darkness as the light rapidly disappears with the sunset. The bottle clattering from the other room swirls into white noise, enveloping him like a fog.

There were carefully placed lines in front of him and Miles. He was always hyper aware of them, keeping a vigilant eye for every single misstep, and now in one stupid second he just hurtled past one without even stopping to give it a thought. His feet feel like they’re made of lead when he walks back into the living room, seeing Alexa gather the last of the bottles into a garbage bag. She lifts her sleepy eyes to him, frowning at the pitiful image he must be presenting. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, mouth feeling strange around the word. He can taste the tang of beer on his tongue still, but he's not sure if it's his or Miles'. “I think the beer got to me, actually, I’m gonna head to bed.”

Alexa nods, shuffling into the kitchen while hauling the bag. “Alright, I’m coming too in a sec.”

She sleeps with her head on his chest that night, arm wrapped around his middle, and it takes him hours to fall asleep, eyes fixated on the ceiling, hands clutching the bedsheet to keep him from grabbing his phone and making yet another mistake.

\------------------

That is the first sleepless night, but it’s not the last by a longshot.

Everything becomes restless very quickly after that, every ounce of sleep he gets disturbed and fragmented, words and images flashing in his head and waking him up in the dead hours of the night, panting and shaking.

After the first week he decides it might be better to release the tension somehow before it gives him a heart problem, so he starts leaving a notepad at his bedside. Every time he jolts awake at night, he makes a grab for it, and slowly the jagged, half-formed dreams start shaping themselves into lyrics, much different than anything he’s ever produced lucid.

_ the truth was built to bend _

_ laughter’s assassin _

_ a mechanism to suspend the guilt _

_ he’s leaving without saying bye _

He keeps it hidden in a drawer during the day. He knows he can easily explain it as a writing exercise if caught, but he doesn’t wanna put himself through a round of pretense just yet, not when every word still feels tender and raw, ripped right out of the deepest recesses of his mind. The days get longer as summer marches on, but he finds he starts living during the nights instead. 

_ I can’t hold down the urgency _

He doesn’t know if Alexa is aware of his broken up sleep patterns, or if she’s noticed the ever filling notepad at night. If she does, she doesn’t say anything.

_ And the tide took me to your mouth _

He builds the fragments by night, and after a while he finds the strength to look at them in the daylight, mull them over, polish them up into full songs. A month passes before he works up the courage to send the first ones to Matt for an opinion, and he gets an enthusiastic text back.

_ [Matt]: Fuckin’ hell! That’s some vocabulary you got going on there mate. Let me see what I can work out on the drums. How did you even come up with this shit??? _

Alex takes a while to respond to the message, thumb hovering over the keys, wondering just how much his words can disguise him.   
_ [A]: Had a good muse. _

_ [M]: Lucky her :P _

After the implicit green light, he feels a certain wave of calmness encompass him, even while his nights continue restlessly, and productively. No matter what happens, at least he can write about it. That’s one last refuge he can’t lose, even if every other safety net seems to be ripping apart under his feet.

Alexa is the only other steadfast presence, and she starts to work her way into his dreams too, and then out into his now crammed notepad.   
_ She swam out of tonight’s phantasm _

Him and Miles don't text. Alex doesn't go to the Rascal gigs. As the heat escalates in London, and the tour dates march closer, he turns to Alexa, desperation crawling up the nape of his neck. 

"You'll be there, right? You'll come to all the gigs with us?"

She smiles at him sweetly, pushing stray strands of hair from his forehead. Too long, he thinks. Great to pull on.

"I'll be there for as many as I can, babe. I was just thinking you'd want to go out and have fun with the guys, no annoying girlfriend in the way."

Alex smiles, even though her assumption cuts him down to the core like a razor. "You could never be annoying. I want you to be there."

Alexa acquiesces with a grin and a kiss, and Alex kisses her back as if he's trying to tuck himself inside her, to weave a cocoon and keep them both in, forever protected from everything and everyone.

Even if deep down he knows that the only thing they need protecting from is himself.

_ If you've a lesson to teach me _

_ I'm listening, ready to learn _

_ There's no one here to police me _

_I'm sinking in until you return_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come talk to me at @gasdancer!


	5. uppstigning

The chill of October starts settling all through the UK, but the tour springs to life nonetheless going from scattered festivals and TV appearances to the true grind of tour life, gigs after gigs, a different city every night, and then back on the road again on four wheels. Alexa stays true to her word, tagging along whenever she can, her turquoise eyes shining to him like a beacon from side stage. The first time they arrive side by side, in their very first gig after the London Incident (there are so many of them he needs specific codifiers now, which is concerning), he can see Miles visibly pause for a second, even as Alexa rushes to hug him. When he pulls away from her a smile splits his face, bearing all the hallmarks of sincerity, but Alex can still see the question lurking underneath. "Hey, Lex! Didn't know you'd be joining us."

Alexa takes off her sunglasses, revealing her teasing eye roll. "I wasn't initially, but it seems your friend here can't be a proper rockstar and he needs his girlfriend around the whole time."

Miles' eyes lock with his, and Alex stares back over the sound of James' laughter, as Alexa leaves them behind to hug him as well. He prays Miles understands everything wordlessly, like it usually goes between them, because he is certain that if pressed he couldn't even begin to explain with words.

The stalemate lasts for a second, and then Miles' face shifts into the smile again, this time with visibly more effort. He claps a hand on Alex's back, which doesn't linger more than necessary. "Alright, bro?"

Alex smiles back, sensing the same strain tugging his cheeks down. "Yeah mate, you?"

"Breezy."

They don't discuss it any further. The days crawl on, the gigs flash by, and even when they do find themselves alone, in the brief safety of the dressing room before the gig, or in isolated moments during soundcheck, the subject is studiously avoided for more pleasant topics, they way they'd carefully fit their fingers around the thorns to pluck a rose. He does consider saying something a few times they manage to be by themselves, but every time his attempt falls flat, either because they're interrupted, or because Miles starts a different conversation, or because at the bottom of it all, he still has no clue where to even start.

_ I'm sorry  _ feels redundant.

_ I didn't mean to  _ feels offensively false.

_ I'm weak wherever you're concerned  _ feels agonizingly honest.

So he says nothing. And Miles says nothing back. And the days pass.

In a funny twist of irony, it's really Alexa's presence that acts like the glue to their fractured relationship, bringing them back to each other with her endless stream of quips and jokes, goading them into taking the piss right back, and letting laughter become the gravitational pull that draws them back together. The draw flows in tandem with their gig schedule, at first slow, then accelerating to terminal velocity. 

It works so well, in fact, that her spell lasts even for the gigs where she can't follow. As the tour hits frenetic rhythms, Alex finds himself caught up in the whirlpool of lights and audience and friends, of raging after-parties and lazy mornings in the tour bus that don't leave much room for him to contemplate, or stress, or fixate on the smell of Miles' hair and the sharp curve of his mouth. The gigs themselves steadily eclipse everything else too, commanding his attention in the most intoxicating way possible. What he finds himself yearning for are those forty minutes every night where he'll get to sing his heart out, and play soulful riffs, and shake that little tambourine over its matching little microphone, comforted by the knowledge that Miles' voice is there harmonising, his fingers completing the melody, his presence drawing the eyes in as much as Alex does, letting him breathe full and free. 

He's never felt like this on a tour. The stage never failed to spark a mixture of nerves and apprehension in him before, no matter how accustomed to it he got or how confident he became in his ability to play the songs well, but this time he finds he has to search hard within him to find any sort of ill feeling, so he gives up on trying and lets himself get lost in it instead. James is there with them too, directing on the drums, and Owen shows up for a few dates to whip the string section into shape, hugging everyone with a grin and Alex is transported back to France in a snap, to the rawest, most uncomplicated parts of it, when they would all fuck around in the studio, and eat and drink and laugh, and enjoy life like it was made for them.

The beauty of it all sneaks up on him at times, and he nearly has to pause for a second to catch his breath at the magnitude of it. He realises now that he's stopped in his tracks while getting ready to go on stage, staring at his bespoke, shaggy-haired reflection in the mirror as if looking at a stranger. It's not a bad feeling at all, he muses as his eyes rake over the image before him. It's a stranger he'd like to get to know better.

"Al!"

His attention snaps to Miles behind him, hovering near the dressing room door impeccable in his own suit and tie. The way he calls out his name implies it's not the first time, even though he's smiling. "Did you forget how the knot goes, or what?"

Alex looks down to the twisted fabric of the tie between his fingers, barely resembling a proper accessory. "I'm still getting the hang of it."

Miles snorts, and then he's moving towards Alex, gently patting his hands down, and off the tie. Alex goes obediently, and resorts to looking at Miles' lip caught in his front teeth as his nimble fingers loop the tie around Alex's throat. He can’t help but marvel at the way he always puts the same amount of energy to everything, from fixing ties to lighting a whole amphitheatre ablaze. It's one of the things Alex loves about him as a music partner. Or, one of the things he loves about him in general.

Miles looks up from Alex's neck, eyes huge and shiny, and a tiny smile tugs at his lips. "What?"

Alex shrugs, feeling the same smile bloom on his face, uncontrollable. "Nowt. Just happy we're here, I suppose."

Miles smiles wider at that, eyes lowering back to where he’s tightening the tie into the perfect knot. "You suppose?"

Alex rolls his eyes. "No, I don't suppose. I know."

"That's better," hums Miles, and then his hands leave off the tie to smooth Alex's lapels, and the shoulders of his suit. "I'm happy too."

Their eyes lock, and Alex feels the urge again, scratching at his consciousness from somewhere far away. He swallows it down just barely. "Ready?"

"Always."

They walk out onto the stage laughing, and the magic starts all over again.

\------------------

"Well, here we are Alex, best day of the tour, gone. Hope you are coping well?"

Alex scrunches up his nose at the teasing as he adjusts his jumper in the tiny mirror of the tour bus. He knows they're about to head into a packed and likely very hot club, but Stockholm gets rather chilly in October, and he'd rather not risk losing his voice now that they're in the home stretch. He pats his hair down for good measure and turns to Miles who's buttoning his shirt while trying to suppress a grin.

"Can you fucking let go of that? You're acting like I said I hate the Beatles or summat."

They'd given an interview a few months prior, and when Alex had been asked about which part of the tour he was more excited about, he'd blurted out Sweden. The truth is that the north of Europe had always fascinated him as a culture and as a mindset, tucked away apart from the mainland much like the UK, yet wholly different, but apparently that was not the answer a normal person or a rockstar was supposed to give, and Miles hadn't let him hear the end of it since.

"Oh, don't be snappy Alex. I know you're just getting moody about having to leave the divine glory of Stockholm behind, but don't take it out on me."

His cackle echoes in the small space as Alex lobs a leather jacket at him, and James' voice cuts through the ruckus.

"Alright children, pipe down. Daddy has just the thing to help you get along."

He half-dives into his bunk bed, bum sticking out of the tiny curtains as Alex and Miles both raptly observe the rummaging sounds from within, and then he emerges triumphantly, holding a small baggie in his hand.

"Oh, fuck yes," Miles says as he rushes closer, spreading out a palm for James to pop one of the little pills on. James hops off the bus to share the treats with the rest of the band, already waiting outside, and Miles grins when he looks down more carefully at the little tablet. He pushes his hand towards Alex, and Alex squints in the dim blue lighting of the corridor to make out a tiny engraved monkey on the top staring back at him.

"Wow," he deadpans . "You know you've made it when ya get personalised E."

Miles chuckles as he bites off half, tossing his head back to swallow, and then he looks back at Alex. His hand lifts hesitantly towards Alex's lips, holding the rest of the pill between a lean thumb and forefinger, as if asking for permission. Alex takes a deep breath, staring at the little chunk, looking electric blue in Miles' grasp, and then he finds Miles' gaze as he lets his mouth fall open, pushing his tongue out just so. Miles' mouth quirks again as he carefully places it right on the tip, finger grazing Alex's bottom lip as he pulls his finger away. Alex closes his mouth, let's spit pool inside, and swallows.

Miles pushes out his bent arm, as if on a formal dance invitation. "Shall we then, Mr Turner?"

Alex loops his arm around Miles', and he can already feel the little pinpricks dancing over his arms, though he knows it's way too early to be feeling anything at all. 

"We absolutely shall."

\---------------

The heat is spreading like a wave through his body, warming him up like a furnace from within, and he never wants it to stop.

He lost his jumper a while ago somewhere, but it makes no difference since it's hot as hell around him, a hundred bodies bouncing up and down wildly, packed together and moving in unison like a single sweating organism, writhing wildly to the deafening pulse of the music. He doesn't usually listen to electronic music much, but right now it feels like the perfect soundtrack to his mood, the heavy bass thumping in his bones and propelling him up, lifting his feet off the ground and his arms above the mass of dancers, all mirroring the same move. His T-shirt is tacky, sticking to the canal of his spine, to every hollow of his ribs, to the dip under his collarbone, and he considers taking it off as well, but as he lowers his hands his elbow nudges against James, dancing behind him, and he forgets all about it.

"Jaaaaaames!" He grins, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as they keep bouncing up and down. His curls are especially enjoying the movement, flapping up and down like a bird trying it take flight, and Alex finds it mighty adorable. "Thanks for the pill mate, it's hitting just right."

James nods with a far-away smile, trying to bringing a beer bottle to his lips through the frenzy of motion, the other patting the top of Alex's head lovingly, giving Alex another burst of euphoria. "My pleasure.” he yells out over the roar. “Though I think I'm getting too old for this shite. Me knees are already giving out." 

Alex takes great offense to the comment. "Yer not! Stop it! We're all young and ferocious and our blood is pumping, and I'll hear nowt else."

James laughs at the comment, eyes slipping somewhere behind Alex. "Some more than others, ey?"

Alex turns around to follow his gaze, and his train of thought promptly derails, and then reassembles onto a wholly different track. Miles is dancing with one of their violinists just a few meters behind them, lean body undulating to the beat, hair plastered onto his forehead in wet strands. His eyes are half closed, like he's having a religious experience in the middle of the dancefloor, and the pulsing lights coalesce into a spotlight before Alex's eyes, shining directly onto Miles, dissolving everyone else into a blur of limbs and hair while Miles stays in sharp focus. He doesn't even realise he's disentangled himself from James, bumping into masses of people as his feet carry him over to Miles, closer and closer until he's occupying his entire field of vision, until he can count the pores on his nose. God, even his pores are beautiful.

Miles' eyes open when he senses the new presence beside him, and then they fill with recognition, then searing warmth.

"Aly, there you are, there you are--"

Alex's hands fit automatically around his waist, nose buried in his favorite spot on his neck, and he feels Miles smile as they start bouncing again, while the beat gets lower, and harder.

He can feel every line of Miles' taut body under his clothes, pressed against him as he is, but it feels woefully inadequate so he snakes his hands under Miles' damp shirt, letting them skid on the sweaty skin underneath. He smells like the nightclub now, heavy with smoke and sweat and spilled alcohol, but it's all added to his natural intoxicating scent, punching at Alex's nostrils with a menace, and he doesn't hold back the tiny groan it elicits. He's certain it's so thick he could open his mouth and taste it if he wanted to, so he puts the theory to the test, letting his lips part and inhaling through his mouth to see if the scent lands on his taste buds. It doesn't, so he glides his tongue out instead, licking a swipe right onto the vein on Miles' throat, where the scent should be pulsing out.

" _ Fuck _ , Al." It's barely a grunt, but Alex can hear it crystal clear where Miles' mouth is pressed against his ear, dominating over everything else. His face is buried in Alex's hair, and Alex wonders in a rush if Miles is having the same reaction.

"Do I smell good?"

He voice comes out like a schoolboy’s, eager for approval from his strict teacher, but Miles laughs, hands dancing a maelstrom on Alex's sticky back. He moves to face Alex, faces barely two inches apart, and Alex's vision grows blurry, an explosion of blue and red and green lights bursting around simmering hazel. Miles' mouth is so close, and he aches to push in, and kiss him, and let their bodies melt into one like they're built to. It's alright after all. Alexa isn't here, even if a hundred pairs of strange eyes are.

"Good enough to eat."

Fuck the eyes.

His lips crash almost clumsily on Miles', and Miles doesn't miss a beat before locking his hand behind Alex's neck, ravenously stroking his hair and tugging it in his fist. His other hand wanders down from where it was clutching Alex's waist, curling around his bum so hard it pushes Alex even further in, plastering them so close together they may need to be chiseled apart. He idly wonders how they must look to everyone, a horny couple groping and sucking face in the middle of the dancefloor, desperately clawing at each other. It gives him a sick thrill, knowing they're hiding in plain sight, flaunting everything from safety. His guts feel like an overcharged battery, buzzing and spitting out sparks at every brush of Miles' lips, at every point of contact between their hands and their bodies. He pulls away, giddy, and then swoops back in, torn between wanting to kiss and wanting to look.

"You should, you know," he giggles in-between teasing pecks that have Miles chasing after him with a grin, making his heart swell up inside his ribcage.

Miles latches onto his cheek instead, planting a kiss and then a teasing bite, arms still caging Alex inside his hot embrace. "Should wha'?"

Alex turns his head just so his lips are in contact with Miles' burning ear. "Eat me."

He feels the sharp turn in energy like the flip of a switch, the way Miles' posture instantly straightens out, hands digging into Alex's flesh and pulling out a gasp. "You'd like that? You want my mouth on you?"

He sounds feverish, just as Alex feels, and suddenly his clothes feel too tight, the club too small, Miles' embrace not crushing enough. "Yeah, yeah, I've been thinking about it for so long." His mouth is on autopilot now, rolling out the words without his input. "I wank myself dry thinking about how you licked into me up against that wall at the studio, how fucking good you made me feel, and I want it again, please--"

"Let's go." 

Alex barely has time to reorient himself from the fantasy he's half slipped into before he realises Miles is pushing them towards the exit, unceremoniously shoving his way through the throng of people still entranced by the music. His eye catches James' toothy grin above his beer, though he can’t make out if he's looking at them or not before they reach the entrance, and then the icy chill of Stockholm seats into him like getting dunked into an ice bath. He is sweaty still and the T-shirt is near drenched, which is why the first gust of wind makes him double over, but the sharp feeling of the cold doesn't work to sober him up, or steer his mood south. Instead he feels a near hysterical excitement as his muscles seize up, huddling closer to Miles to the point where they almost stumble over their feet when they get to the little steps of the bus, squeezing together through the door.

The light inside is the same dim blue as when they left, but now Miles seems to be glowing under it, as if submerged under the ocean, and Alex swims up to him to kiss him again, disregarding any need for oxygen. 

They stumble blindly into the tiny corridor, shedding shirts when the need to grope and suck on skin becomes imperative, and then they part, breathlessly staring between the tiny bunks.

"My place or yours then?" Giggles Alex, as Miles drags him into his own bunk, laying him down with a devilish grin and crawling on top. He draws the little curtain once he's settled inside, submerging them in total near darkness, and Alex scrambles for the switch, setting the tiny lamp in the corner ablaze. Miles scrunches up his face at the onslaught of light on his retinas. "Oh, fuck."

"Wanna look at you," Alex pants, and then completely contradicts himself when he pulls Miles down for another kiss, wrapping his jean-clad legs around his waist. The sensation leaves him unsatisfied, the denim chafing and tugging and completely preventing the skin on skin contact he’s desperate for, so his hands fly down, hastily unbuckling both of their jeans, and trying his best to shimmy them down his legs in the shoebox of a bunk they're encased in. Miles does the same, and after copious wiggling and laughing their jeans are discarded at the bottom of the bed, along with their underwear. When Miles pushes down again their hardening cocks come into contact with one another, and they both gasp, Miles' hips reflexively starting to rut down, rubbing them up against each other. It feels good, feels bloody amazing rather, but a distressing memory of the same situation tickles at the back of his mind, bringing him back to a time when they were tangled like this again, racing against the clock, and his heart skips a beat, undercutting the euphoria. 

Besides, he was promised a wholly different thing than some light frottage.

He captures Miles' mouth again, getting his fill with a final swipe of his tongue before pushing Miles’ head downwards, spreading his knees so Miles has ease of movement. Miles takes his sweet fucking time on the descent, planting soft open mouthed kisses all along his torso and dragging his tongue over his nipples, making his abs twitch pathetically, hands fisting in Miles' hair, growing demanding.

"Come on baby," he whines, and doesn't miss the soft moan exhaled at the sound of the pet name. "Stop being mean to me, you promised me, you promised--"

His legs are unceremoniously drawn apart, and then up towards his chest, exposing him completely to Miles' ravenous gaze, and he feels himself clench at the attention, and then again once Miles drags his nails down his soft inner thighs, grabbing hold of each cheek and spreading him even further. He stays like this only for a second, admiring, and then bends his head down in the halo of the overhead light.

Alex nearly bucks off the bunk at the first touch of Miles' tongue, swiping broadly and deliberately along the tight muscle, Miles moaning like he's the one getting licked. He throws his head back, arms securing his legs over his torso as Miles’ tongue drags back down, and then up, setting a slightly faster rhythm as he familiarises himself again with Alex's most tender parts.

"Oh my God," Alex gasps as his legs spread impossibly wider, hips rocking upwards and into Miles' expert mouth. This was the thing he kept coming back to in his most heated times, in dark bedrooms right before falling asleep, or in the heat of the shower, pretending that the spray of water was French summer rain, and now he has it again, has Miles' warm mouth churning lava deep in his gut with every devilish swirl of his tongue. There is just the barest hint of stubble emerging on his chin, and it scrapes deliciously around where his mouth is locked, sending electric zaps all the way down to Alex’s toes.

Miles unlatches himself with a gasp, letting a last string of drool pool down and into Alex's opening. "Fuck Al, you taste so good." He looks entranced as his thumb glides over the now obscenely wet pucker, rubbing slow circles around it as if trying to drive Alex insane. His legs twitch, thrumming with pent up energy, and he curls one around Miles' shoulder, Miles turning to plant a kiss on the soft flesh of his thigh. "All sweet and musky, fuck, I'd stay there forever if I could."

Alex isn't quite sure where to shift his focus, because while the words send ripples of heat through him, making his cock spit out a weak spurt of precum on his trembling belly, and the thigh kisses make his hair stand on end, that thumb is what’s truly stealing the show, shoving everything else on the back burner. Miles dives down again, making him gasp and arch into it, but the thumb doesn't stray, prying him open just the tiniest bit so Miles’s tongue can dive in, enough to get him electrified, and make the words pour out of his mouth:

"You can put it in." 

He sounds out of breath already, dizzy like he sprinted a mile, but it doesn't compare to the whiplash he gets when Miles freezes to fix a thousand Watt stare at him, and then dives up for a searing kiss, lifting Alex's legs higher up until his feet touch nearly push the ceiling.

"Say it again," Miles begs between kisses, thumb still trapped between them, working maddening circles right around the bullseye, his mouth tasting funny with what Alex knows is himself. "Tell me, say it."

"I want your fingers in me," Alex rasps, letting the floodgates open and stepping right in front. "I want you to fuck me on your fingers and make me come, I wanna be stuffed full Mi, please, I'll do anything you want."

Miles kisses him again, and then in a flash he's off him, turning towards the end of the bunk. Alex blinks up dazedly, ready to snap at him to return at once and keep snogging him, but then Miles turns around with a clear bottle in his hand that makes his stomach dip, and he braces himself, vibrating all over.

The first touch makes him almost jump, a cold, slippery digit pushing tentatively along his rim, barely breaching, and then Miles is crawling back up to him, dotting small kisses on his jaw and his slack mouth, eyes huge and shiny like gemstones.

"You'll tell me if it hurts, right Al?" He sounds out of breath too, and Alex nods frenetically, wiggling his hips upwards to convey that right now it's not hurting  _ nearly _ enough.

"Come on, go ahead," he pants in Miles' mouth, gasping when Miles' finger sinks all the way in in one smooth motion. It feels strange, not exactly good but not exactly bad either, mostly just foreign, so he kisses Miles to distract himself from it, get to the pleasure faster. 

Miles indulges him for a while with a smile, but then he slithers down again, landing a soft bite on his belly before taking his neglected cock in his mouth, springing it back to attention so fast Alex almost gets light-headed. His finger starts pumping a steady rhythm, tugging at the rim in the same pace as his mouth sucks on the swollen head, looking almost purple in the dim lights, and Alex flexes against him internally, making Miles splutter on a mouthful, cursing softly. 

"Another one?

Alex hums ruggedly, swaying his hips when the middle finger slides in along the first one, and Miles starts going harder on both ends, closing his eyes as his mouth and hand start working faster. Alex feels like embers coaxed into a roaring fire, sparks flying with every fluid movement Miles makes on him, and the sounds permeating the room make him sweat, and moan, wet sounds from Miles' lips sucking in earnest, and slick sounds from his fingers are fucking into him, faster and faster.

He does it once more, fingers sinking inside to the knuckle, and then on the drag out he curves them slightly and--

He is pretty sure even the people in the club have heard his startled yelp, collapsing into a moan.

"Right there," he begs, trying to shove down onto Miles' fingers to get the perfect friction again. "That were good, do that again, Mi, please."

"Did my baby like that?" Coos Miles, lifting his other hand to pet Alex's face, and fuck if the tone and the words don't go straight to his cock, making him twitch where Miles has let him rest on his thigh.

"Yeah," he breathes out, biting his lip around another moan as Miles complies. The question was possibly rhetorical, but he feels like answering anyway. It'd be rude to keep Miles from knowing how incredible he is making him feel. "Yeah, I love it, I love how you're doing it to me, no one makes me feel like you do, no one, no one--"

His legs are starting to cramp where he's holding them open, but the discomfort pales in comparison when Miles starts a more brutal rhythm, propelling him towards the climax as his other hand takes over from his mouth, fingers zeroing in on that spot inside him and rubbing rough circles as he rises above Alex, trapping him like a moth in a glass.

He hazards a look down, where he is spread wide, and the visual makes him tremble, pushing him closer to the precipice. He's leaking all over Miles' fingers, making them glisten almost beautifully in the light where he wanks him tight, and the fingers of the other hand are shining too where they pump steadily in and out, disappearing inside him all the way to the hilt.

He tears his gaze away, breathless and flushed all over, and he looks up to be faced with Miles' eyes, piercing through him, sending cold and hot waves raking across his shivering frame. Miles bites at his trembling mouth, and then bends down to his ear.

"That's how I'm gonna fuck you, too, nice and rough like you want it."

He's pretty sure he sobs, as his back arches off the bed, cock spurting out like a hose all over his belly, all the way to the top of his chest, so violently that it twitches painfully in Miles’ relentless grip, and that nub inside that Miles is still rubbing starts to throb like it's gonna burst. 

He wants to curse, or invoke some divine presence but his voice fails him as he writhes on the bed with leftover jolts of energy. Miles leaves off, both hands abandoning him as he looms above him to start stroking his own erection, picking up a ragged pace immediately. 

Alex realises he didn't touch himself at all while he was taking care of Alex, both hands occupied with unraveling him like he was coaxing a riff out of his guitar, and he lets out another bereft little moan, still swarmed with heat like fireflies buzzing under his skin. He spreads himself further before Miles' gaze, letting the sight work Miles up even further, knowing how intoxicating he must be looking right now, wrecked by Miles alone. 

It feels odd where Miles was filling him, like something is missing rather than returning back to form, and he clenches inquisitively around the void, watching the long lines of Miles' body flexing and releasing as he strips his cock above him.

"What's wrong baby?" His voice wavers and threads into a lower pitch as he looks down between Alex's spread legs, the way it always does when he gets close. "You feeling empty?"

Alex sucks in a breath, closing his eyes as he feels his thigh twitch in need. "Yeah," he breathes out, not even mustering the energy to feel embarrassed.

Miles moves his other hand, and Alex feels excitement build in his gut again, except Miles doesn't push inside him right away. Instead, he drags his fingers along the mess on Alex's torso, scooping up a curving path all the way down to his navel, and then his fingers drop down, and sink back inside with zero resistance. It doesn't just feel like getting fingered now, 'cause he can feel the spunk pushing inside him, sticky and wet with every thrust of Miles' fingers, and he realises that's what it would feel like if someone came inside him. If Miles came inside him.

He feels nearly blind as his hand reaches down to palm himself again, not yet limp after his first orgasm, and it feels too much, too sensitive and almost painful, slamming into him from without and within in agonising waves, but he's incapable of stopping, incapable of letting himself fall back down.

Their hands make obscene smacking noises as they synchronize, Miles' fingers rubbing slippery circles into him with no finesse but just enough urgency, and their hoarse moans swarm the tiny bunk, building the perfect chorus for the climax.

"Fuck, Al, Al--" Miles is hunched over him, hair soaked in sweat, brow furrowed as he races closer and closer, and Alex would drag him down for a kiss if he had any coordination left in his body. "I love you."

Miles' voice is fractured, a storm of pain and need, and this time Alex finds the voice to reply before he sees stars for a second time.

"I love you too."

\------------------

The top of the bunk seems to be dancing in colours above his eyes, and he's perfectly content to watch as his body slowly succumbs to the heaviness of sleep, floating down like a feather. 

His entire chest and stomach are still covered in three orgasms’ worth of filth, neither of them bothering to get up and clean themselves, instead collapsing next to each other on the tiny bed, curtain enclosing them in a tiny little universe. The bus is so quiet it's almost buzzing, and he revels in that novelty, breathing in the emptiness of the space and exhaling, smile playing over his lips. He wonders when the rest of the band might start returning from the club. He wonders what time it is, and when the tingly haze of E should start wearing off.

"Fuck," he mumbles, and he feels Miles gently stir beside him, body a brilliantly warm line against him. "The comedown is gonna be shite."

Miles stays quiet for a while, so much that Alex wonders if he fell asleep mid-reply, but then his rasping voice blooms in their little enclosure.

"Yeah, and for the pills, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A formal apology to anyone that's ever actualy done Molly and had to read my interpretation.
> 
> come talk to me @ gasdancer!


	6. consternation

The comedown is shite, as predicted.

The bus was already cruising along when Alex woke up with a fog swimming in his skull, Miles a warm line against his back, breathing deep and even. He'd very carefully disentangled their legs, body feeling stiff and rusted, and taken a peak out of the tiny curtain to check if the coast was clear. Once he'd made sure that everyone was still sound asleep, he'd carefully stepped out, and quickly rushed into the bathroom to wipe away the remnants of last night in the tiny sink. He stood there for a few minutes afterwards, droplets of water cooling on his stomach as he collected himself, and recollected staring somewhere into the murky mirror. 

The fog refuses to part, even when they arrive and he takes a big lungful of crisp Copenhagen air as he gets off the bus, or when he sees an excellent selection of pastries at the local bakery they sit at to have a quick brunch before heading to the venue. The people in other tables are all chatting animatedly to one another, creating a buzz like bees flying insistently over his ears, and he rubs a frustrated hand over his eyes, aching from the overhead lights, too bright for midday. He jolts up when Miles bounces into the chair next to him, dropping a huge plate and an even bigger coffee mug on the table, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "Did you know they call this "wiener bread"? That's fucking hilarious, we're having wiener for breakfast."

"Ey, pipe down," Alex complains, scrunching his eyes shut. "Got a headache."

"E doesn't give you a headache, it just gets ya down for a bit," Miles retorts around a mouthful of pastry. "You'll shower at the venue and you'll be good as new."

Alex doesn't respond. He knows from other times they've taken pills together that Miles does this intentionally the morning after, becoming even more animated to combat the dreariness of the comedown. The practical thing would be to copy him, or at least take a deep breath and roll with it, but he just feels himself getting agitated instead. "Yeah, take a shower and then play a shit gig 'cause I'm not all there."

Miles nudges him with his foot. "Ey, don't start like that. The gig's gonna be boss as always, you're just cranky now. The beds in that bus are awful too, and it just adds to it, my back is all locked up." He stretches his arms high above his head, shoulder popping with a wet cracking sound that makes Alex's hackles raise.

"At least we'll be in a hotel tomorrow," he mumbles, picking off a bite-sized chunk off the pastry in front of him. He doesn't lift it to his mouth, simply toying with it between his fingers.

Miles makes a sound of agreement, and then he is turning towards Alex, knee bumping on Alex's thigh while his head gets close to his face, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, and Alex feels the sudden urge to turn away. "Since you mentioned the hotel, I was thinking that maybe I could buy some things in Berlin tomorrow, and we could... continue where we left off."

Alex keeps his eyes carefully trained in front of him, tearing off another fluffy piece from the Danish. He can hear himself swallow inside his head, slick and unsettling. There it is. He was hoping he wouldn't be confronted with last night's missteps so quickly, but Miles has always been precocious like that. Perhaps it's for the best that it happens here, in a crowded Danish bakery with the rest of the band chatting jovially in the adjacent table. He shudders at the thought of having to have this conversation in a more compromising position, where he'd be unable to pick his words well, and even less able to stop himself from chasing his worst impulses down the rabbit hole.

He shrugs, still not looking up, hoping his tone sounds casual enough. "Not much to continue, is there? We went a bit too far on the pills, and we said some stupid shite. God forbid if we did everything we said we'd do when we were high, right?" 

He's almost impressed with how passive and matter-of-fact he sounds, but he supposes he can thank the energy sap of the comedown for that. Miles doesn't do anything for a few seconds, as if frozen, but then he shifts in his seat, carefully extending the distance between them to a more acceptable length. 

"So…" He sounds confused more than anything, open and childlike, and Alex feels the first trickle of guilt pulse through him, comfortable like the touch of an old friend. "So you don't want to go all the way?"

"Nah, mate," he grits out, tearing off another long piece onto his plate. "It were just the heat of the moment, like."

He can see Miles nod slowly in his peripheral vision. His voice sounds considerably harder when he speaks again. "So all the things you said were just the heat of the moment, then?"

The chunk is flayed into ribbons in his hand. He doesn't want to think about what Miles is implying, even though he knows what it is perfectly well, because that's even worse than sex. Sex would cross one of the invisible lines he's set, and he's already crossed one too many. The other thing would pulverize everything to atoms. And besides, he never meant it like  _ that _ .

"Yeah, maybe."

The silence that ensues is brutal. Miles stays there for what feels like forever, and Alex can feel his eyes lasering holes into the sides of his skull, but he wouldn't be able to lift his gaze now if he tried. Neither of them says anything, but Alex can feel the heat radiating from Miles' body like a physical weight, pushing into him so hard be feels like his lungs are gonna collapse. Just as he thinks he can't take it anymore, and prepares to open his mouth to say something probably even more damning, Miles' shoves his hand in his pocket, and then abruptly stands up.

"M'going for a smoke."

He doesn't wait for a reply as he pushes the chair back with a skin-crawling squeak and marches out of the door. James looks up from the adjacent table, gulping down coffee. "Everything alright?"

Alex looks up for the first time since he sat down, and dons what he hopes is a pleasant smile. "Yeah, just a bit moody still."

James looks outside the window, probably to where Miles is standing, or pacing, or cussing him out, and Alex exerts a great deal of effort not to follow James' gaze and check. When James turns to him he looks perplexed. "Yeah, I s'pose we're all a bit off today. Maybe no more piss ups in the immediate future."

"Yeah," Alex agrees. "I think we're good for a while."

James nods, taking another sip of coffee, and Alex looks back down to his Danish like he's seeing it for the first time. It looks like he's put it through a paper shredder. He pushes the plate away from him and gets up to go to the bathroom, to go somewhere, to move the cloying weight off his limbs.

"You're not gonna eat that?" James asks.

"No, I don't think so." His coat feels like it weighs two tonnes when he shrugs it on. "I ruined it."

\---------------------

It's just five days, he tells himself.

Four more gigs in Europe, spanning five days, and then they'll be back in the UK and it's gonna be over. Alexa is gonna start joining them again, the Ecstasy crash will have long worn off, and the whole thing will reset, like hitting snooze on the alarm clock, or putting the lid on a pot. If only they can last for five days.

The gigs remain an oasis, and the first time he realises the music at least hasn't been affected he almost wants to cry with relief, boneless as he walks off the stage, the crowd roaring behind him. It gives him a haunting feeling of warmth, knowing that no matter what their songs will be a safe haven when he feels exposed and flayed open nearly everywhere else. At least in song he's exposing himself on his own terms.

That night they sleep in their own bunk beds, as always, but Alex can't help but feel the awkwardness, the disjointed energy as Miles hops on the one above him with barely a look behind him and a grunted "'night". He slumps into his own little cubicle like he's been told he's sleeping on the couch.

He stays peering at the ceiling above him for long afterwards, after every goodnight has been uttered around him, and all movement on the corridor has died down. He thinks he can see the outline of Miles' body through the wooden divider, spread over the covers long and pale, hair matting on one side and rebelliously sticking up on the other. He knows Miles doesn't like the covers in the bunk, and in most other places, running hot during the night despite his lithe frame. Alex feels rather cold now. He wishes he could sneak up and fit his body under Miles', snatch some of his warmth and give him the soft pillow of his back in exchange, but he can't. He lets the image of that replay in his head, over and over like a broken record, intercut with memories of last night, fresh and uncomfortable and all too vivid, until the whirlpool in his head drags his eyes down, and he drifts off into sleep.

They don't share the hotel room either, the next night in Berlin. A part of him hopes that Miles will gently knock on the door, or call to ask if he needs company sometime later at night, as he tosses and turns in bed, linens tangled up into rags underneath him. Maybe he just needed some time to cool off, and now he's okay, and he'll show up, and they can stay up all night talking and drinking and laughing, like they've always done.

Miles doesn't call, and he doesn't appear. The dawn is cracking through the drawn curtains when Alex finally succumbs to his tiredness, curled up on the right side of the bed.

Just three more days now. And then two weeks until it all ends.

By the time they touch down on Heathrow he feels bone weary, ready to see Alexa, ready to crawl into bed for 24 hours, to recharge completely for the final lap. Alexa gives him the most tender kiss when she greets him at the door, making his insides ache.

"Ugh," she grumbles as she hugs him, "I can't believe I have to leave again in a week, and I'll barely get to see you before you leave for Sheffield. New York is the worst." 

He softly hums to acquiesce, and Alexa frowns as she pulls away to look at him, tucking his hair behind this ear. "Are you alright, love? You seem a bit off."

"Just tired. It were a hefty few gigs."

Alexa smiles, planting another tiny kiss on his lips, eyes twinkling. "You wanna take a bath together? It'll relax you right up."

Alex tries hard to block everything from his memory that might trigger a strange response, and puts on a smile. "Yeah, I'd love that."

\---------------

He was right, of course. The homeland sets everything straight, reboots everything right back to where it was, as if Europe was some drugged up hallucination and now they're finally sober and awake. At least, it does for the most part.

He still finds it awkward to look at Miles properly most of the time, as if a lingering look or a wrong gesture might trigger something unpleasant, and yank them right back to where they were. It's the same for Miles, he knows. He's focused on the crowd, on his guitar, on the band, and he's all smiles and laughter and charm as he always is, but they seem to be given in specifically measured doses where Alex is concerned, when once they were handed out wantonly. They go out the same, they drink the same, they beam as their families make their respective appearances to their gigs in Sheffield and Liverpool, but Alex can feel the cracks in the plaster, and feels hopeless as he watches then grow, and fan out like lighting bolts.

They don't touch each other for the remainder of the tour. No one sneaks into each other's bunk, no one knocks on a hotel room door, no one drags anyone to the loos in a drunken fit, as temptation suggests more than once. They keep their hands to themselves, pointedly and deliberately.

The itch to say something about it grows and spreads inside him as the days trickle by, but he figures that if Miles hasn't broached it then there's nothing more to be said. Alex drew a harsh line in Copenhagen, Miles clenched his fists and stayed markedly behind it. There's nothing more to it. Only, as the end draws near, becomes a day within single digits instead of an abstract date months away, he finds the words mount in his head, shoving at his skull for escape, and he isn't sure how much longer he can contain them. He could put them on paper, but he shakes at the thought of the song this situation might produce. He just needs to say something that'll repair this, and save their friendship from this limbo it's sunk in. 

The final day of the tour dawns and sets, a bleak November morning in LA followed by a dark November night. The gig is wonderful, as always, and way more emotional than he anticipated, which almost makes him balk again, especially when he sees Miles surreptitiously wipe a tear away as they head backstage. Broaching emotional topics while already in a vulnerable state seems like a slippery slope he doesn't want to dive into. He'd rather be all there, and keep logic on the wheel as much as possible, especially since there's no need for sentimentalism anyway. The conversation is going to be simple: I'm sorry for any awkwardness, please let's just chalk it up to a bad trip so we can be friends again like we used to.

The after-party seems to be glowing, colourful lights bouncing around the floor of the glam LA club they've booked, and he steels himself as everyone gets settled down, passing around shots and laughing. Miles is sat right next to him so it should be easy, but it feels too crowded for the type of chat he wants to have, too loud, as they all down vodka shots, exaggerated coughs and gags coming from around the table. He takes a deep breath, ready to turn around and ask Miles to maybe head outside, when Miles speaks up first.

"She's fucking banging, isn't she? She's been miring since the gig."

Alex's brain takes forever to process the words separately, and when he does he finds them incomprehensible in that order. He looks up at Miles, eyebrows furrowed, and then he follows his line of sight, straight across the room. One of their violinists is talking to an attractive blonde girl, and she keeps sneaking glances to Miles, flirtatiously toying with the straw of her drink between her red lips.

"I think she's his cousin or something," Miles whispers to him, as if that clarifies things in any way. "I'm diving in, wish me luck, mate."

He claps Alex on the back once, and then he struts over to the pair, every step filled with swagger as Alex stays staring dumbfounded at his back. The girl smiles as Miles reaches them, her apparent cousin making the introductions. As they shake hands, Miles lifts her hand to his mouth and places a gentle kiss on the knuckles, making her laugh and shake her head.

It's at least ridiculous.

He doesn't know what to with himself. Miles is apparently too busy to talk to him about the shattered remains of their friendship, so his only option is to sit and drink, and pretend to laugh along with everyone else's jokes. Miles has to break away from her at some point, he reasons, even just to get them a drink, and Alex is perfectly content to wait, suddenly very eager to have the conversation he was dreading twenty minutes ago.

Alex finishes one drink. And a shot. Then another drink. Two more shots. His extremities start to get tingly, but instead of everyone's jokes getting funnier, he just finds them annoying and grating as he grows more agitated. Miles remains locked at the girl's side.

He slams the empty third shot glass down, and before he realises what he's doing he's risen from his seat, feet marching him to the happy pair.

"Hey!" He beams at them when he arrives, voice saccharine sweet. "Sorry to interrupt, but could I borrow Miles for a quick second?"

The girl lifts her poorly plucked eyebrows in confusion, and then goes to open her mouth with a pleasant smile as if to give her permission, but Miles speaks first. "I'm a little busy, Al."

Alex turns to him, fighting to stop the frustration from plaguing his every feature, but Miles' stare cuts off any retort. There's something cold in his eyes, like Alex is a prime nuisance that he needs to get rid of instead of his best friend, and Alex feels his stomach drop immediately. Miles would never have fixed a stare like that at him before, even if he'd interrupted his flirting rituals. But then, Alex would never have interrupted before, either.

He breathes out, deflated and inflamed all at once, and doesn't even bother to mask the grit in his voice. "Fine. Excuse me."

He drowns his glass in vodka when he gets back, collapsing into the plush sofa. He peers at the glass, two-thirds full, and then adds a splash of orange juice before taking a hearty swig, letting the alcohol incinerate his oesophagus. James looks at the concoction over the rim of his own glass, and when he sets it down he has the signature goofy smirk of inebriation. "Lover's quarrel?"

Alex would normally take the joke. He'd let it fly for the obvious tease that it is with a little laugh or an eyeroll, and that would be the end of it. Except right now his insides are burning hot, and his teeth hurt from clenching, and somehow he finds it impossible to find the humour. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" 

James raises an eyebrow, and then his hands, as if to surrender. "Alright, no need to get combative. I'm just concerned about yous. And don't tell me nothing's going on, because I have eyes."

Alex can feel his breath rattling in his sinuses. He supposes it's no surprise, given some of their recent behavior, but it still feels like a shock to the system hearing someone say it to him out loud. He clears his throat, and tries to calm his frayed nerves. "Okay, I know what it looked like in Stockholm, but we--"

"Stockholm??" snorts James, ice cubes rattling in his glass. "Do you seriously think that's when we found out?" 

He pauses, and when it's clear Alex only has a deer-in-the-headlights stare to offer in response, he sighs playfully. "Let me put it this way: You do know that the only soundproof room in France was the studio, right?"

James is still smiling, which seems grotesque right now, as Alex shifts back to the memories August of 2007, and to how much of what he thought were private moments were perfectly exposed to both James and Owen. He isn't sure if the colour has drained from his face or if he's blushing bodily, but whichever it is makes James take pity, and he offers a sympathetic pat on Alex's shoulder. "It's alright, Al, I ain't judging, you know that. It's not like I've forgotten what it's like to be young in love."

Everything halts.

He feels like he's in a dream, and he's just missed a step on a stairwell, or he's slipped on something on the floor. There's a moment, a snap second of serenity when everything feels suspended, like it's holding its breath to see what's gonna happen. And then his stomach drops to his toes, heart jumping to 200bpm, and everything inside his head starts screaming as he falls, waking up in a sweaty tangle.

In love. In love? That's ridiculous. He realises he has a death grip on the glass, the chill numbing his fingers. They may have to break the glass to pry them off. Amongst everything, the anger erupts inside his stomach again, spreading like a firework.

"I'm not in love with Miles."

James quirks a condescending eyebrow, which aggravates Alex even more. What the fuck does James know anyway? Just because he heard some gasps and moans through a wall, or he saw them sneaking out of a smoky Scandinavian club, it doesn't mean he has any authority on their innermost feelings. 

"I'm not! We just fuck around a bit, and that's all. You don't know what yer talking about."

He sounds borderline hysterical. He takes a large sip of his drink, hoping it might calm him down enough. It numbs his chest pleasantly, but not nearly enough.

"Right, I suppose it might be harder for you to realise when you're in it," James muses. "You can't see the way you look at him."

Another flare of irritation slices through him. "How the fuck are you gonna tell me how I feel? I mean sure, it's Miles and I-- I love him," and fuck if saying that again doesn't send shivers all through him, understanding how much he means it, "but I love him 'cause he's my mate, you know? The sex is a separate thing. You're just confusing them together, that's it."

James now looks more confused, if anything, and Alex hates this, hates being talked down to like he's a fucking child, like James somehow managed to find all the answers just by casually observing, when Alex has been tormented for well over a year. 

"So let me get this straight: You wanna fuck Miles like a bunny, and you also love him as a person, but you don't call that being in love? 'Cause I see no other way to call it."

Alex opens his mouth, then closes it again, like a caught fish struggling for air. He scrambles for an answer, frantically searches every corner of his brain for something to debunk James' insanity, but it seems like every corridor is empty, and only leads him to the same terrifying, inevitable conclusion.

Because James is right, isn't he? He's right, and he's just explained everything, and Alex is currently unable to compute it, or respond to it in a measured manner.

He lurches to his feet, downing his vodka so hard he momentarily thanks he pierced a hole in his throat, and then he grabs his coat with shaking hands.

"Fuck you, James. You don't know nothing."

He runs out of the beautiful club, blocking out James' voice calling out that he was just trying to help, blocking out the pretty lights dancing on the walls, blocking out the inquisitive looks he gets from the band as he rushes out, inhaling the crisp air as he all but runs back to the hotel. He has no brain power left to assess anything else, because every single cell in his brain is burning, and flashing, and screaming at the new reality it's forced to accept.

In a more sober, or collected moment he might have had the self possession to laugh at himself, and at the blinders he'd successfully managed to put on himself for months and months on end, and at all the blinding signs he'd twisted his head to ignore. In his current state all he can do is race down the sidewalk on autopilot like a maniac, practically shouldering through the few people he passes, leaving them staring after him like he's a psycho, or shouting profanities at his back. He feels slightly bad in a place far away within him, but supposes he can be excused for acting like an arse, at least this time.

Love makes you crazy, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you ask, I don't accept constructive criticism and I'm not sorry
> 
> come talk to me @gasdancer !


	7. eruption

He doesn’t know what to do with himself the next day, or the day after, or many days after that.

The next morning he wakes up slowly, tangled up in the hotel sheets, and for a few blissful seconds his memory shields him from all harm. He performed a wonderful last gig, he’s in the sunny City of Angels, and everything is perfectly alright. Then the events of last night swarm in again, and the morning sun feels like it's roasting him alive.

Realistically, he knows Miles is in the next room over. He also, most likely, isn't alone. It seemed like it was going quite smoothly with the girl before Alex stormed off, hounded by terror. There's always a chance the girl chose not to go back to his room, but she'd seem enamoured as far as Alex could tell, and why wouldn't she be?

Miles was incredibly easy to fall for, as it turned out.

His brain takes turns around it, pawing and growling at the intruder like a beaten dog, and he lets the madness consume him until he realises the sun is setting again, and he hasn’t even gotten up to wash his face, or brush his teeth.

He pushes himself up eventually, after the room has been submerged fully into darkness, and turns on a side lamp, casting a flimsy pool of yellow light on the nightstand and the side of the bed. He orders room service, and the server's alarmed face when be opens the door tells him everything he was avoiding when he didn't look at any of the bathroom mirrors. He eats, and then sits in silence, that's only intermittently broken by his phone buzzing. He drags it off the nightstand after the noise becomes unbearable, squinting at the assault of light beaming from the screen.

_ 2 missed calls: Alexa _

[A]: _ Are you still asleep?? How hard did you go last night haha! call me when you wake uuup :** _   
_ 3 missed calls: Miles _

_ [M]: have it ur fuckin way _

He stares at the screen until the light burns up his corneas, and colours start dancing in his vision like a kaleidoscope firing off. He rubs at his eyes, then takes a breath to steel himself as he taps away at the keyboard, barely connecting with any of the words as they form a sentence towards Alexa:

_ [A]: Yeah, still pretty hungover, me voice is all banged up so I'll call you up tomorrow morning, right? Love ya _

His eyes ache as he presses "Send", staring at the last two words. Darkness swarms thick inside his chest at how much he means them, and at how much they feel like a lie. 

He doesn't text anything to Miles.

They're supposed to be catching a flight back to London tomorrow afternoon. Together. The thought of having to spend eleven hours trapped next to Miles makes his knees buckle. What would he say? How would he be even able to hide himself? Maybe he can't, maybe he never could. James was able to tell right away, so why not Miles as well? That's what last night was, wasn't it? Miles wandering off with some blonde tart to send him a message. _ Stop embarrassing yourself. It's not like that between us. _

He clears his throat as he calls up the airline to change his ticket to the day after, and then he calls the reception to book another night in the room. Perhaps a coward's move, but he used up all his braveness when he confronted the truth head on last night, and now his storage is drained.

One more night of peace, he thinks as he curls back into his messy bed. One more night where he can hide, and come tomorrow he will start facing reality again.

It's the banging on the door that wakes him up again, well into the next morning.

"Alex!" James' voice is muffled through the thick door, and Alex rubs at his eyes, getting up on sleepy legs. Once he reaches the door he pauses, suddenly terrified.

"Are you alone?"

"Yeah," replies James, audibly irritated. "Everyone's downstairs already, come on, we have to get to the airport."

He sighs, opening the door. James' brows knit.

"You're not dressed yet?"

"I'm not coming actually." He hopes he looks apologetic enough, even though all he feels is bone-deep tiredness. "I booked the next flight."

James stares at him, taking off his sunglasses as if to get a better look. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Just wanna stay a bit longer, is all. See the city." He sways on his feet, hoping against hope that James won’t push any further, and won’t make him face up to any more horrible truths about himself.

James' chest deflates, and he fiddles with the handle of his suitcase. “Look, Al, I wanna apologise for last night. I were way out of line with all that, I have no clue what goes on with you two, and it’s none of my business either. I hope you’re not staying behind because of me.”

_ No, I’m staying behind because of Miles, which you happened to bring to my attention. Big difference.  _

“No, mate, just wanna hang around a bit more, is all.” He forces a smile, taking in James’ concerned features. “And I’m sorry, too, shouldn’t have blown up like that. Let’s just say it were the drinks and put it behind us, ey?”

James takes in a breath, and smiles, nodding. “Yeah, let’s do that.” He opens up his arms hesitantly. “Hug it out?”

Alex can’t help the little laugh, and he moves into James’ arms, patting him lightly on the back. “Have a nice flight.”

“Have a nice time in LA. I’ll see you in Brooklyn for the album.” James claps him on the shoulder as he disengages, and for a sad, desperate moment, Alex wants to ask for the hug to last a bit longer, wants to ask James what the hell he should do next, wants to ask for reassurance that everything is gonna be okay, but James is picking up his trolley and putting his sunglasses back on with a smile, so Alex does nothing. “Goodbye.” 

When the door closes behind him again he stays marooned there for another minute, trying to figure out how the hell he fucked everything up so much. He should call Alexa. He should text Miles something. He should go out into the city, walk a bit and take in some fresh air to clear his mind. He should at least shower.

He goes back to bed, and sleeps for another three hours.

\----------------------

He spends the 13 hours of flight worrying about confronting Alexa, so much so that the woman on the adjacent seat has to snap at him to stop bouncing his leg. Alexa won't be home when he returns now, off to New York again for a fashion gala, but she won't be long, and ultimately he'll have to look her in the eye and lie. He tries hard to engage his mind elsewhere, putting on a movie on the tiny screen, but his mind starts wandering again before the opening credits even roll.

How can he even face her? How can he even look her in the eye when he knows what he's hiding? It will probably be written on his forehead in bright red letters:

_ I CHEATED PHYSICALLY, AND I CHEATED EMOTIONALLY TOO, AND YOU OUGHTA LEAVE ME. _

She wouldn't forgive him, he knows it. Sex is one thing, something physical that can be kept out of sight and out of mind, but they won't be able to survive this. Alexa is fun, and free, and easy-going, but she has her pride too, and she wouldn't accept him falling for someone else in a million years. They're alike in that, like in many other ways. In another time he'd say he knows her like he knows himself, but it turns out he doesn't know himself that well either.

His stomach clenches harder than usual when the wheels connect with the runway, and he marches out of the plane like a deployed soldier, headed for the front lines. The house is deadly quiet when he steps in, blanketed in darkness. He flips the switch and the living room is illuminated, but strangely it doesn't come to life. Everything is just how he's lived it and remembered it, the sofa with the quilt thrown on, the record collection spilling out of the messy shelves, the stray lighters on the coffee table, and yet he doesn't feel like he entered his home. In fact, he feels just like he did in that LA hotel, slightly out of place, a sad visitor in a space that's warm and friendly, yet not really accepting him as its own.

He dumps all of his clothes from the suitcase straight to the washer, and then jumps into a scalding hot shower, so burning his skin is inflamed by the time he steps out, nearly radiating heat. He sleeps again, and when the jet lag shakes him awake in the dead of night it's the same disorienting feeling, like he woke up in a foreign land.

Alexa appears a few days later, eyes bright despite the dark circles underneath and hair tossed up in a messy bun, and his heart seizes just as he expected when they kiss hello, but he powers through it, invigorated by the new plan forming in his mind.

"Lex, how are you liking New York?"

\-------------------

He figures he can push through it. A new album cycle with the Monkeys is approaching fast, and he can pour everything he has there, let his creativity and his energy spark up and burn out there, leaving no room for any distracting, depressing thoughts about how he's in love with his best friend. The band flies out to New York to start recording and get a feel for the new album sound, and their giddiness becomes infectious, permeating through Alex’s every pore until he’s laughing along with them, until it barely feels difficult anymore. Matt is thinking of growing his short curls into an afro, since everyone in the band has let their own hair grow too, and Alex laughs as he puts his hand in to ruffle up the emerging curls, snorting out when Matt elbows him in the ribs. He has a fleeting, panicked idea that maybe he's been in love with Matt too without realising, but it passes as quickly as it comes. He loves Matt, too, but he understands now, deep inside, that it's nowhere near the same.

The new songs have a strange feeling about them, wholly new from anything they’ve ever tried before, thicker riffs, steeped in darkness and melancholy, accompanied by the intricate lyrics he furiously wrote right as he emerged from sleep. They feel incredibly personal, cutting too close to the bone, but everyone is extremely encouraging, following his lead, and he feels buoyed by their excitement, shrouded in safety. Through them, he supposes he can sing about everything plaguing him, he can scream it out if necessary.

James is also there with them, directing from the console with a familiar deft hand after all these years, but Alex now finds that his presence isn’t nearly as comforting as other times. He realises he finds it impossible to block out the memory of their conversation, even as everything around him grows steadier. Every time he looks over at him all he can see is the condescending arch of his eyebrow as he tore Alex’s worldview to shreds.

_ You wanna fuck Miles like a bunny, and you also love him as a person, but you don't call that being in love? 'Cause I see no other way to call it. _

He feels like a fucking moron every time he circles back to that dig, because in hindsight it seems clear as day, yet for countless months he had no clue this was the reality he was living. It embarasses him to think that he never saw it, and it makes him feel like a laughing stock when he thinks of how he must have seemed to Miles, ridiculous and way out of line with his poorly repressed yet blindingly obvious feelings. He wonders how funny he must have looked when he clumsily took back that love declaration in Denmark, barely aware of what he was doing.

Except, he remembers, Miles hadn't seem amused. He'd seemed angry, and frustrated, and he'd stormed off with barely another word.

Because Miles had also said it. 

The possibility turns him inside out, makes his feet go numb and his hands feel like concrete. It taunts him, nestled at the back of his brain with a smug little grin as if enjoying his suffering while he records, while he plays, while he sleeps, while walks around New York with Alexa making preparations. He can't shake it off for days, weeks, well into December and Christmas holidays, and well into 2009, while he absentmindedly packs for Australia to play January festivals in preparation of the new tour. When he examines it for too long he finds himself getting light-headed, yet he still sneaks glances at it from the side, unable to make himself stop.

What if Miles feels the same way?

Of course there's nothing to be done, even if so. Alex won't leave Alexa, and even if he did he would never be able to just...date Miles in public, for everyone to gawk at and judge, but the knowledge would at least settle the terrible pit in his stomach, it would give him the comfort that once again, they're in it together, and he's not miserable on his own, floundering in the storm.

They still have one final engagement for the Puppets tour, the NME awards in February, and he watches the date approach like a juggernaut, stomping on to crush him under its feet. 

His heart skips a beat when his phone buzzes the day before and he sees the name of the sender. He hasn't seen Miles since that last night in LA, and the last he ever heard of him was that angry message the morning after. It's been four months now, the longest they've ever gone without any type of contact, and the image of Miles' name in his phone screen is simultaneously incongruous and familiar. For some reason it gives him the same feeling he gets when he gets off the train at Sheffield, taking a second to adjust to the new imagery and realising he still knows everything like the back of his hand. His thumb nearly trembles as he opens up the message, but it is plain and innocuous, like Miles is merely picking up from a previous conversation.

_ [M]: wear the black leather jacket tomorrow _

He stares at it for more than necessary, and then he types out a simple  _ "OK" _ . Miles doesn't text anything back.

He complies with the request when it's time to get ready, knowing the importance of them keeping with the theme, and he takes a look in the mirror one last time before he leaves the house. He's dressed all in black, his hair curling around the nape of his neck and over the side of his forehead, longer than it's ever been, and he has to admit he looks good. He might have looked sexy in this get-up even, if it weren't for the fleeting flash of trepidation in his eyes, and the apprehensive slouch of his shoulders. He tries to shake it off, put on a brave face for once, and then he steps out of the house. 

He arrives way too early, a clear indicator that his nerves are messing with his head, and he waits outside the building, chain-smoking and pacing on the adjacent alley. The car pulls up in front of him after an eternal ten minutes, and then they all step out. James emerges first, then Richard Ayoade, both pristine and smiley in their suits, and then a black boot touches the pavement, Miles stepping off the car like a black leopard, lean and svelte and cool, and impossibly, painfully beautiful. He's always been rather shaken every time sees Miles for the first time after a prolonged absence, but now that he finally has all the pieces of the puzzle, and he knows exactly where all this awe is bursting from, it feels ten times stronger, like trying to stare at the sun with his bare eyes.

Miles smiles at him, and his heart leaps in his chest like it's trying to fly out, and return to its rightful owner. Then he approaches, hand patting him a little too hard on the back.

"What's up, Al?" His voice is a touch too loud, a hint too raspy, and even through the pounding in his chest Alex can tell that he's been drinking already, not enough to be fully drunk and stupid, but possibly well on the way.

"Good," he lies, voice quiet and subdued. Miles doesn't stick around for a follow-up, instead marching towards the entrance, the rest of them following suit. Alex greets James and Richard warmly, getting another, gentler pat on the back, and then lets his eyes rest on Miles' sleek figure as they let him lead the way inside the venue, bracing himself for a long night.

\-------------------

It flies by in nearly a blink.

The alcohol flowing freely among the tables does its part to speed things up, and even though Alex wants to be good, and keep the worst of him in check, it's harder and harder to resist the urge to make himself numb, especially when they win the award for Best Video and put their arms around each other during the acceptance speech, Miles' fingers searing him like a brand even through two layers of clothing. When they sit back down it feels unnatural not to celebrate, so they drink, and they loosen up, and the laughter starts bubbling up.

Richard keeps assaulting them with his dry takedowns, Miles retorting with something outrageous in turn, and Alex can feel himself unwind knot by knot, easing back into his chair, eventually chiming in himself in Miles' support, and for a moment he thinks he can see a spark in Miles' eyes when they look at each other amidst giggles, like something calling out to him. He doesn't know if it's crazy, if his infatuated brain is indulging in some wishful thinking, but it seems genuine, a real and tangible warmth in Miles' eyes that he desperately wants to latch onto, to coax into something brighter.

The raise their glasses one last time as the event draws to a close, and toast to their win.

"To our exceptionally artistic music video," deadpans Richard.

"And to Alex's beautiful song," supplies Miles, and there it is again, there is that thing as Alex makes eye contact, simmering underneath the surface. He's not seeing things. He can't be.

The glasses clink, and Alex downs his champagne, letting himself be ushered to the after-party, unable to stop staring after Miles the entire time.

The backstage interview makes it worse. The alcohol is making them loose, the interviewer is making silly jokes, they somehow burst into a flawless harmony of Standing Next To Me, and Alex realises, to his absolute dismay, that he's letting himself fall into it, letting the illusion carry him away. Maybe they can make it work, somehow. If Miles is there beside him in this, maybe there are ways, ways that could make them both happy. And why shouldn't they be happy? They deserve as much, Alex thinks, after all this mayhem. 

Miles is fiddling with his back pocket, producing a cigarette packet, and he pops one into his mouth.

"I'm goin' out for a bit."

"I'll go with you," Alex replies immediately, even though he had no plans to go smoke and no need to do so at present. Miles pauses for a second while taking out his lighter, regarding him with something akin to hesitation, and then he simply nods and turns towards the exit. Alex follows blindly, like a dog chained to an invisible leash, staring up in adoration.

It's cold outside, a typical February night in London, but the heat from the mass of people and the warmth he feels radiating from within keep him shielded. Miles brings the lighter to his mouth, and flicks it on once, twice, three times, only managing to produce jittery sparks that flash against the lines of his face, highlighting his sharp angles. He realises he's staring when Miles pauses to look at him, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and shaking the lighter as if to jolt it awake.

"You're not going to smoke?"

He looks like a vision, like the exact embodiment of a 60s rockstar, dotted with some perfectly cherubic Renaissance features in his soft eyes, and his curved pink mouth, and the alcohol is swimming in Alex's blood, coursing through his veins and into his addled brain, and he has nothing lined up to say or do, apart from one imperative act.

He closes at the distance between them, one hand cupping the back of Miles' head as he all but smashes their mouths together, teeth clattering, and fuck,  _ fuck, _ it's good, it's better than any other time he's kissed him, because Miles is soft and warm and fragrant under his hands, and now that he knows why he always latched onto those things, why they drove him mad in the first place, the effect is amplified, flooding him with a sense of wonderment, and lightness, and unbearable love--

Suddenly he's being shoved roughly backwards by a hard forearm to the chest, and the kiss is broken as abruptly as it started, Alex stumbling on his feet as his vision adjusts again. When it focuses again on Miles there's nothing angelic in his' features anymore, only barely contained anger. His voice is trembling just the tiniest bit when he speaks up, blazing in the frosty air.

"You have some fucking nerve, don't you?"

Any happiness he felt before promptly drains away into the pit inside Alex's stomach and wishes he was small, smaller than a speck of dust so he could just float away, and avoid the stare leveled at him, sapped of any warmth, as if it were never there in the first place.

"I'm sorry," he mutters lowly, like a child being chided. "I'm sorry, I just thought--"

"Right," cuts off Miles, sharp as a whip. " _ You _ thought.  _ You _ wanted. You, you, you. It's always all about you, isn't it? Alex sings and monkey dances."

It feels like a slap in the face. "No, it's not like that at all," he says, and he sounds snivelling and pathetic to his own ears, cowering before Miles' unflinching gaze. He doesn't know what compels him, but the words leave his mouth in a rush, unchecked. 

"I thought you were in love with me." 

_ Because I'm in love with you, and I need you to be too, I need you to tell me I'm not alone. That's why. Please tell me I'm not alone.  _ He can't articulate the rest, the words feeling like an insurmountable weight pressing down on his throat, but he hopes Miles understands it all the same. He always does, doesn't he? There's no way he cannot see the truth, all but laid bare in front of him.

Miles doesn't respond. He stares at Alex for what feels like an eternity, expression frozen into something he can't quite decipher, and then he snorts out a laugh that pierces right through Alex's chest.

"Right, of course." He takes a step closer, and Alex has never felt worse about having Miles approach him. "That's what you'd like, isn't it? It would make this all so much easier for you. You'd have me right where you want me."

The weight piles onto his windpipe, nearly crushing it. Easier. Of course it would be easier. It would be easier if Miles was in love with him too, if they could have something, anything, in any capacity, if Miles would just let Alex give him even a fraction of the love that's bursting out of him. 

At least now he can be assured that their telepathy still works. Miles saw exactly what Alex wanted, peered right into his innermost thoughts and discovered the truth, except instead of responding in kind he saw it for what it is, a pathetic obsession, a virus. He should have expected it, really. It was all a pipe dream, a child's comfort, and it being shattered shouldn't be making him feel like his heart is being torn to shreds, wailing for help.

"You're right," he says, voice detached in that way he recognises from when he gets too emotional, and his brain scrambles to protect him from exposing too much by lifting barriers.

"I know I'm right," Miles snaps back immediately, and Alex can see that he's all but crushed the unlit cigarette in his hand. Miles must notice at the same time, because he tosses it away, as if offended by its very existence. He shakes his head again, rubbing his hands over his eyes, and Alex just sits silently, awaiting his final judgement. When Miles speaks again he sounds so dejected Alex suicidally wants to run over and hug him, but he stays put, looking without seeing.

"You know, I thought we could do it. I thought we could still be friends even after this whole mess, but God I'm fucking sick of this, Alex." His name is another stab in the gut, right under the ribs, pushing upwards. Miles looks at him, and Alex isn't sure if his eyes are brimming with pain, or if he's projecting again. "I'm sick of you."

He can be strong. He just needs to shut it out. Make it white noise, make it a casual conversation, make it anything other than what it really is, because if he lingers on the words too much he will do ugly, pathetic things, right in front of Miles, and he doesn't need to give him any more reasons to deride him.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, this time with a decidedly more level voice. "You won't have to see me anymore, you know." He's fine. He's centered, they're just talking like adults, and anything else is reserved for later. "Alexa and I are moving to New York."

Miles looks at him, face still like a wax mask, and Alex maintains eye contact as valiantly. Miles takes a deep breath, and then nods, his sweet mouth curling like he just smelled something bad. "Enjoy yourselves."

Alex keeps his gaze trained forward when Miles storms away, back door slamming shut behind him. He waits until the echo of the metal hinges dies out, until Miles' footsteps have receded, and then the pressure in his throat springs out all at once, devastating. He manages to keep the first sob quiet, clamping a hand on his mouth as his vision blurs, but the second one tears out of his lungs like that of a wounded animal, reverberating in the small alley. He scrambles to get away from the lights, scrambles to get some purchase on the wall as he lets the avalanche wreak through him, shaking and whimpering in the dark. His knees buckle, and he ends up sliding down the damp wall, half-blind with tears, shards of half-formed thoughts cutting him to the bone.

_ Idiot-- idiot-- idiot-- ruined it-- lost everything-- lost him-- he's gone-- you ruined it-- I love you-- I love you-- I love you--- _

He doesn't know how long he stays there, quietly crying in the murky alley. He lets it all pour out until he's drained, until he can't feel anything anymore, and then he carefully gets up, wiping his face on a discarded tissue he finds in his pocket. He walks out into the street to find a taxi, each step feeling like he's wading through water, everything thick and muted, pressure pulsing in his ears.

The taxi driver shoots him a few weird looks as he enters, and he assumes he must look like a walking wreck but he doesn't have the will or the energy to salvage his image, so he just mumbles the address and then lets his eyes zone out on the colours of the street lamps flashing by the window. He faintly registers that he didn't let anyone know he was leaving, but he doesn't do anything to rectify that. He can't bear to say another goodbye tonight.

\--------------------

Packing is significantly more complicated than he expected. He had grown accustomed to the light packing of tour or recording sessions, and when he came down from Sheffield he barely had any possessions to constitute a transport conundrum. Now they have to clean off every edge of the house, and move every bit safely to another continent, and he'd be almost daunted if this move weren't one of the things keeping him sane for the past few months. As is, he takes the task on with single-minded focus, and bit by bit everything they own gets neatly stacked into the brown boxes, labeled, and then sent to the transportation company. It almost feels like looting a corpse, but it's a metaphor that doesn't sit well in his stomach, so he tries not to dwell on it. He has enough unpleasant thoughts in his brain as it is.

When the day arrives, Alexa gets misty eyed, saying a heartfelt goodbye to the house they've known for over a year now, but Alex can't muster up the same response. The space looks bereft, stripped of all its life and reduced only to its bare bones, devoid of any identity, but for him it's felt like this for months now. It's time for a new beginning. For a new page, away from everything, and everyone. Maybe in New York he'll finally start feeling like he truly belongs. He closes the door behind him, burying the house in silence, and locks the door for the last time.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A massive thank you to everyone that stuck it out with this story, and I want you to know that I appreciate every single comment, kudos, and hit you guys gave me. Sorry for the angst!
> 
> See you for the final part ;)
> 
> come talk to me at @gasdancer !!

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Smiths (cause you gotta have the disaster gay vibes)
> 
> come talk to me at @gasdancer !


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